


Underneath

by brookebond



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Arthur is confused, Eames is keeping secrets, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Photographer Eames, Pianist Arthur, Round 7, so much jazz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 00:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13752591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookebond/pseuds/brookebond
Summary: Arthur thought his life came down to two decisions, either or. But he meets a stranger that turns everything upside down and he discovers that there might be a third option. That is, until he finds out the truth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Inception Reverse Bang Round 7 and for the wonderful image created by roseandthorns28 which you can find over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13751364/chapters/31600614).
> 
> Looked over by the ever amazing sibilant and teacuphuman who both tirelessly helped me get to the finish line on this beast of a fic.  
> Any mistakes remaining are all mine, I tried my best!
> 
> Chapters alternate POV between Arthur and Eames. Hopefully it is all fairly obvious who the chapter is from.

[](http://s1210.photobucket.com/user/jokersheart/media/ae%20Underneath%20Art.jpg.html)

**Fischer Morrow Stock Takes a Dive**

_ Shares of energy conglomerate Fischer Morrow fell more than 10 percent following recent developments in the trial against Maurice Fischer. It has not come at any shock to those watching the lawsuit with interest. _

_ Shareholders appear to be jumping ship, not wanting to be tied to the sinking company. The last three months have seen a record low for Fischer Morrow with many theorising that it is a direct result of Fischer Sr.’s decline in health. He had been wheeled into the courtroom by his son. _

_ Robert Fischer—son of Maurice Fischer and heir apparent—refused to answer questions pertaining to the drop in the company’s shares. He remained close to his father throughout the entire hearing, his usual mask of indifference in place. _

_ With the hasty retreat made by Fischer Sr. and Jr., one can only assume they are attempting to keep a low profile. _

  


—

Eames folded the paper, setting it on the bench next to him. Pride swelled in his chest. The downfall of Maurice Fischer was largely because of him. Not that he could go announcing it to the world. His benefactor had paid a lot of money for him to keep his mouth shut and he was known as being extremely capable of keeping secrets when it came down to it.

At the end of the day, he was nothing without his reputation and there wasn’t anything in the world that could make him compromise it. Integrity was a large factor when it came to business. Though, he was planning on buying a bottle of champagne and celebrating in ‘style’ later that evening.

For now, Eames stood, leaving the newspaper on the bench and pulled on a new persona. He slipped amongst the crowd, shoulders dropping and his gait lengthening. He fit seamlessly with the overworked crowd as though he had been there all along. No one paid him any attention, just glanced over him. It was part of the job, making himself appear as something else,  _ someone _ else. He enjoyed it, found it simpler than anything he had tried before.

Pretending to be something he wasn’t was easy.

It was all an act to gather information and he was the best, perfect at it. People hunted him down from all corners of the world. He had spent months if different countries, years pretending to be a different nationality. His reputation preceded him and now with Fischer Morrow on the decline, his future was looking up.

Cobol was going to be his making, though.

They were the final piece of the puzzle that—with their inevitable destruction—would slot his entire life together. Everything hinged on this job.

He had been outside, collecting data, filing away things he would look at later, waiting for an opportunity to get inside.

Opportunity came to him.

A week’s worth of surveillance had informed him that the dark-haired young male stepping out of the building, frown pulling his face tight as he flipped the collar of his coat up, was the son of the very man he had been hired to take down. Walter Wright had no idea what was coming for him.

Eames smiled to himself and set off, a plan already formulating in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

“You have to be one or the other.” It was a line he’d heard before, delivered with precisely the same inflection as it always was.

Arthur wasn’t very good at listening, though.

He loved his father, without a doubt. But the man was set in his ways, refusing to adjust the image he had of Arthur. If his mother was still alive, Arthur wasn’t entirely sure he would still be living with his father. But because it was just the two of them, there was an obligation to stick together, a sense that he should stay nearby so their family wouldn’t splinter.

But, on days like today, it was difficult for Arthur to remember the good things about his father.

“I’ve been managing just fine for the last four years,” Arthur said, fighting the urge to raise his voice. He’d only come to his father’s office as a courtesy. He wasn’t going to be home that night, intending to stay over at Mal’s because she and Dom lived above the club. It was just easier than making the trek across town. It was a hell of a lot safer as well.

“Don’t be so stubborn, Arthur,” his father sighed, leaning back in his plush leather chair.

“I get it, alright?” Arthur said standing and grabbing his satchel. “But I’m not giving up the jazz. I like it. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“Happiness has nothing to do with a successful future.”

“We’re just going to have to agree to disagree.” Arthur didn’t wait for the retort he knew was coming. He was out of the office, striding to the elevators with his father’s secretary hot on his heels.

“Slow down,” Ariadne huffed. “Why are your legs so long?”

Arthur refused to crack a smile at her joke. Every time his graduation was brought up, it ended in a disagreement. Arthur didn’t need the constant reminder that his future was looming, uncertainty taunting him with every passing day. Thoughts of what he would do when college was finished chased him each night, never giving him a full night’s sleep.

“It wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t so short,” he said, stabbing the button to call an elevator. He pressed it three times, willing the damn thing to move faster.

“You were supposed to stop by before you left.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, shifting the strap on his shoulder. In his frustration, he’d forgotten that he’d promised to talk to Ari about their plans for the evening. It was one of the nights he performed at Level 3 and he had promised that he would take Ari along so she could finally see him play. “I’m heading there now. I’ll give you the address and just tell Dom that you’re with me if he gives you any trouble, okay?”

“I thought we were going together,” Ariadne said, blocking his exit when the elevator doors opened.

“I’m not sticking around with him any longer than necessary. Not tonight. I’ll see you there.” He pushed past, grateful that she was a tiny thing, and pressed the lobby button. He was pretty sure he could actually lift her, if he really wanted to. But as it was, Arthur just wanted to get out of the building and escape to Level 3 so he could lose himself in the music for at least a few hours. Forgetting all of the bullshit that came with his family name was something he desperately needed.

“Arthur,” Ari called as the doors closed, face pinching in a frown.

His insides twisted, making him feel sick. He didn’t like upsetting Ari. She was the one good thing about going to Cobol. Since the first day they’d met, Arthur had felt a kind of kinship with her and was over the moon when she’d been kept on as more than just a temp. It had taken months before he’d told her he went to Columbia and was a pianist. It had taken even longer before he even considered letting her listen to anything.

That was what tonight was supposed to be about. But his father had gone and ruined everything by bringing up what Arthur was going to do after he graduated. It was months away. Arthur figured he didn’t have to waste time thinking about it just yet. Especially not on a night he was playing at Level 3. Those were some of his only opportunities to free himself for the restraints of college and familial expectations.

Jazz had no expectations.

The lobby was empty, bar the two security guards who looked as though they were sleeping in their chairs. Arthur wondered if gravity was assisting them staying in their seats or if it was going to turn against them and take them down. He wished for the latter and, if he had more time, would have been more than happy to sit and watch, waiting for the inevitable. But, as it was, he was already running late and Mal was going to worry. Mal had enough trouble being married to Dom, Arthur didn’t want to add to it.

Stepping out into the wind, Arthur flipped the collar of his jacket up. He’d forgotten his scarf that morning and hadn’t been bothered going home to get it but now he was regretting that decision. There was a bite to the air and he wasn’t looking forward to the trek to the club. It was only going to get colder as the sun went down.

He wrapped his arms around himself in a vain attempt to maintain some of his warmth and started heading in the direction of the subway. He made it all of five steps before colliding with someone. They were warm—and apparently had the sense to have a scarf on—and very solid.

Arthur opened his mouth, ready to tear into them about needing to watch where they were walking but the words died as his gaze locked with the stranger’s. At a glance, Arthur would have said those eyes were blue but, in the golden light, they were already changing colour, making him second-guess his first assumption.

“Sorry there, mate,” the stranger said, English accent curling around the words and drawing Arthur’s gaze to the plushest lips he’d ever seen.

“No problem,” Arthur muttered, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat before he did something stupid like reach out and try to feel if those lips were as soft as they looked.

“In a hurry?” the stranger asked as Arthur tried to sidestep around him. He was solidly built, filling out his coat and successfully stopping Arthur from getting away with nothing more than his mere presence.

“Sort of.” As gorgeous as this guy was—and he clearly knew it as well—Arthur wasn’t in the mood for idle chit chat with a stranger. To be fair, Arthur wasn’t  _ ever _ in the mood for idle chit chat with strangers. He only briefly considered it because those eyes drew him in like a black hole, sucking everything in nearby its orbit.

“Well, right you are,” they said and stepped to the side, gesturing for Arthur to pass.

“Thanks,” he muttered, dropping his gaze to the ground and forcing it to stay there.

As he walked away, there was a strange niggle in the back of his mind telling him that he was being watched. But, putting in down to living in a city packed full of people, Arthur kept walking, doing his damnedest to avoid bumping into anyone else.

—

Arthur burst through the backdoor, shooting a glance at Yusuf behind the bar. Yusuf gave a single nod, gesturing upstairs and Arthur knew that Mal was up there, most likely pacing and muttering in French.

He mouthed ‘thank you’ to Yusuf and trudged up the stairs, his feet feeling heavier with every step he climbed.

He was out of breath after rushing the last block because he was running late. The subway had been fuller than usual and Arthur had jumped off a stop earlier than necessary because he couldn’t handle the crowd any longer.

Now he was paying the price, though: his lungs burned because he was ridiculously out of shape and he was finding it hard to center himself after that odd interaction with the person outside of Cobol. Those eyes had chased him the whole way to the club and he’d felt as though someone had been watching him almost the whole time as well.

Some days he really hated living in a city so packed full of people. Arthur had considered moving to a different city, maybe a whole new state, too many times to count. But he always came back to the same conclusion: he had to stay in New York because of his father.

“Arthur!” Mal called as soon as he pushed the door to the apartment open. She rushed over, sweeping him into her arms as she rattled off questions, all of them in French.

Over the years of knowing her, Arthur had picked up enough of the language to understand the general gist of what she was saying. Mostly, she was repeating the same thing, just in varying ways.

“Désolé,” he said, easing his bag off his shoulder and onto the couch before he sunk into it as well. “I had to go to Cobol and I just…”

Mal frowned and took a seat next to him, folding her legs beneath her in a way that always had Arthur on edge. It looked as though at least three of her bones should have been bending in awkward directions. But Mal didn’t seem to be bothered by the position. Maybe it was because she was French.

“He’s forcing an answer?”

Arthur had lost count of the number of times he’d complained about his father and the ridiculous pressure he was feeling. His father wanted him to accept the invitation to play in the New York Philharmonic. While it was everything Arthur had been working towards since he was twelve, something didn’t feel quite right. There was something missing and he didn’t know if he could go into something so demanding while he felt as though a large chunk of himself was still lost in a dark haze.

“Apparently it’s past time I decided,” Arthur sighed, closing his eyes and tipping his head against the back of the sofa. “One or the other. I can’t have both.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mal said, whacking Arthur on the shoulder with the back of her hand.

He tried to duck out of her reach but she was too fast, getting in two solid hits and leaving him rubbing the sore spot. “It’s not like I want to give either up,” he muttered mutinously and gave Mal his best glare.

Unfortunately, she was immune to his looks.

Mal returned his scowl—which she managed so much better than he did—and climbed off the sofa.

Arthur tracked her, watching as she floated through the kitchen, grabbing glasses and a bottle of wine. He should have seen that coming. Mal’s solution to life’s problems seemed to be having a drink and pretending they weren’t there. Arthur figured he could pretend as well. For a few hours, at least.

“Drink this,” she said, placing a glass in his hand as she curled her legs beneath her again.

At one point in his life, Arthur had thought he was in love with Mal in a way that was far removed from the family they were now. It hadn’t taken long for him to figure out that he was infatuated with the sense of her, her ability to make things seem grander and somehow still grounded, the ease with which she floated through life, her casual touches.

Arthur had been in love with her being, not her specifically.

That realisation had dictated so many of his relationships afterwards and each boyfriend had ended things with the same sentiment: they couldn’t compete with Mal.

“Just drink, mon chou. Drink and things won’t seem so pressing.” She nudged his hand, lifting it closer to his mouth so all he had to do was tip it slightly and let the oaky liquid flow over his tongue.

He’d never been a huge fan of red wine. But it was Mal’s favourite and so he tolerated it enough. Usually, drinking the wine ended with him lightheaded and unable to play. Tonight, the warmth of the wine swirled through him, easing the worry that had been sitting low in his stomach.

“You will always have a home with us, Arthur.”

He paused with the glass pressed to his lower lip, words stuck in his throat. He wanted to say something, offer Mal something in return, but nothing seemed worthy, nothing seemed to be on the same level as what she had offered: a family no matter what he did.

“Arthur, what are you doing? You’re meant to be downstairs,” Dom said, from the doorway that led down to the club. While Mal had the ability to know exactly what Arthur needed before he did, Dom had the ability to interrupt at the worst possible moments.

“Oh, Dom,” Mal sighed. “Just give him five minutes.”

“Doors opened twenty minutes ago,” Dom said as though it was more than enough reason for Arthur to be downstairs and ready to go.

Arthur smiled wryly at Mal and took a small sip of the wine, feeling himself loosen as the warmth of the alcohol flowed through him. “It’s okay. I’m coming.” He passed the cup to Mal and straightened his vest before following Dom down to the club. Mal would follow shortly, she had to change and get ready for their set. All Arthur had to do was sit at the piano and the music would flow. It was easy. Jazz spoke to him on a cellular level and Arthur never had to think about where his fingers were.

“You know our agreement doesn’t say you can drink before you go on,” Dom said, clearly trying for teasing and falling so far from the mark Arthur almost was embarrassed for him.

“I’m aware.”

“So why were you—?”

“Look,” Arthur said, holding out an arm to stop Dom before they actually entered the club properly. “I’m sorry I had a few sips of wine but let’s not make a big thing out of it, okay?”

“I understand that you’re having problems with your dad.”

Arthur groaned and closed his eyes, tipping his head back. “You know Mal is much better at this than you are, right?”

“I’m plenty good at helping people,” Dom said, his tone hurt.

“Dom, we have a very special kind of friendship. Let’s not ruin it by trying to have a heart to heart.” Arthur offered a small smile, trying to lighten the sting his words had delivered. He knew Dom’s heart was in the right place but he wasn’t comfortable discussing those sort of things with someone Arthur knew had a hard time offering genuine sympathy. Mal was definitely the better of the two of them when it came to giving advice, though her advice did tend towards the ‘have a drink’ variety. Arthur didn’t mind. There wasn’t much a drunken evening with Mal couldn’t cure.

“Fine,” Dom muttered and led the way to the side of stage.

The club was nearly full, par for the course on a Friday evening. Arthur had played before larger crowds, it was almost worse when the crowd was smaller. There was a comfort within having a large number of people all watching, waiting for Arthur to find the keys and start playing something that would transport them elsewhere. 

Dom nudged him, palm pressed firmly to the middle of Arthur’s back and ushering him on stage.

That was one way to get him out there.

Arthur shot a look over his shoulder. He never went out without Mal. She was always there, usually leading the charge, but most often holding his hand as though they were more than just friends. Arthur liked that illusion. It usually meant he was safe to mingle after their set. Men were less likely to hit on him if they thought he was already taken by an icy French woman.

“Come, mon chou,” Mal said, twining their fingers together, thumb rubbing soft circles against his own.

A smattering of applause greeted them and, through the dim hazy glow, Arthur could make out a few regulars. He even spotted Ari amongst the crowd and grinned when she waved enthusiastically at him. The weariness from earlier was easing, feeling lighter with every step he took towards the piano.

Arthur settled onto the stool, grateful that he didn’t have to adjust it and take up precious playing time. He smiled up at Mal, nodding once before resting his fingers on the keys. He led Mal into ‘ _ I’ll be seeing you _ ’, the notes flowing freely from him. Arthur allowed himself to sink into the music, into Mal’s melodic voice, and let the feelings from earlier in the day escape through his fingers, releasing themselves with every press of a key.

—

“Laphroig, please,” Arthur said, leaning on the bar and watching Yusuf putter around back there.

“You should branch out, Arthur,” Yusuf commented even though he placed the glass of scotch on a coaster in front of him. “Live a little.”

“If I wanted a change, I would’ve asked,” Arthur replied, not trying very hard to keep the bite from his words. He was sick of people telling him he needed to change the way he was leading his life. He got it enough from his father, he didn’t need it from a bartender as well.

“Well, I have plenty of suggestions, if you ever feel the need.” Yusuf went to take another customer’s order and leaving Arthur to ponder how one simple sentence could have ruined his good mood after the set.

“Arthur, wow,” Ari breathed as she sidled up next to him. “That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”

Arthur smiled at Ari and swirled the amber liquid in his glass, not finding any use for words as she filled the silence, gushing—mostly about Mal—and how amazing it was to finally see Arthur perform.

Even when Yusuf came to see what she wanted, Ari barely stopped for air. Ordering a cocktail in between breaths of how incredible Mal’s voice was seemed to be second nature to her and Arthur found he couldn’t really disagree with anyone she was saying.

“You never told me about her. Why didn’t you say you played with someone?” She sucked on the straw, glancing up at him with wide eyes and waiting for his answer.

“I never mentioned her?”

Ari shook her head, downing half of her fruity drink in one go.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” he said with a shrug, finally taking a sip of his drink. After the wine, he wasn’t really in the mood for alcohol but it was his post-show ritual: a glass of scotch and a little unwinding. If he was lucky, he might convince Ari to dance with him. But he wasn’t holding his breath. She was tiny and sucking her drink up through a straw. He was going to be lucky if she wasn’t passed out on the floor after just the one.

“Nothing slips your mind.” She whacked him on the shoulder, a little harder than he was sure she meant to. “You didn’t tell me on purpose.”

“You can’t prove anything,” he said instead of admitting his deception.

“I’m coming back, just fair warning.”

“Anytime. But I only play on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“I’ll put it in my calendar.” Ari smiled, finishing off her drink and setting it on the bar for Yusuf to deal with. “Now, are you going to ask me to dance or what?”

Arthur smiled in return and knocked his drink back, the liquid warming him through and making him just a little bit lightheaded. “Come on then,” he said, grabbing Ari’s hand and leading her to the centre of the floor.

—

It was nearing three in the morning by the time Arthur convinced Ari it was time to leave. He wasn’t letting her head home by herself and had decided to crash on her sofa instead of staying with Mal and Dom for the evening. He might wake up with a crick in his neck but it would be worth it to make sure Ariadne got home safe and sound.

“I can get home just fine,” Ari complained, leaning against Arthur as he helped her leave the club.

“Sure you can,” he mumbled, holding the door open while trying to get Ari upright. He knew he shouldn’t have let her have that third drink but she was sneaky and had conned Yusuf into giving her the drink. Next time he was there, he was going to have words with Yusuf to make sure this didn’t happen again. Arthur couldn’t guarantee he would always be there to keep Ari safe.

“You are not sleeping in my bed,” she groused, sliding across the backseat of a cab Arthur managed to hail.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he closed the door, Arthur looked back at the club, watching Dom going through the motions of closing up. Usually he would help but Ari took precedence. Dom had been locking up the club long before Arthur had shown up, he would be fine doing it by himself tonight. Someone else standing near the door captured his attention, though. It was dark, the street lamp barely lighting the dark corner of the club but Arthur could have sworn it was the same guy he had bumped into outside of Cobol.

The cab pulled out into the late night traffic, leaving the dark figure behind and Arthur wondering if he was drunker than he had originally thought.


	3. Chapter 3

It was his first time in a place like this. He hadn’t actively avoided them, but jazz wasn’t exactly high on his list of things he sought out when he was bored.

But he had to give it to the owners, this place was incredible. Somehow, he felt at home; welcome and comfortable. He had never felt anything like it before and, as he settled into a booth in a dimly lit corner, he smiled to himself. This job was turning out to be far better than he had originally thought.

The son was surprising him at every turn.

When he had first been given the file, it had been just a run of the mill job, nothing special about father or son. But the more he dug into the son’s life—because the father was still a mystery he wasn’t able to crack—the more he discovered.

On first glance, the son was the perfect image of prim and proper, he didn’t seem out of the ordinary, playing by the rules. But as he dug deeper, it became clear that there was much more lurking beneath the surface; overdue library fines, allergy to shellfish, a subscription to a rather adventurous porn site. 

He was intrigued.

He shouldn’t have been intrigued.

Just as he was contemplating whether or not alcohol would help with his unfortunate interest, the son walked out onto the stage accompanied by a striking dark-haired woman that he could only call exquisite. She was truly stunning in a deep red—almost like spilled blood, he thought—floor length gown.

There was a brief introduction, a short interlude to cover the son settling himself at the piano. He tried to keep his attention focused elsewhere, observing other patrons to get an idea of who went to the club, but his gaze was pulled back every minute until he found himself just staring at the son. He was entirely captivated, watching those fingers dance over the keys, producing sounds he had only ever heard through speakers.

Their set barely lasted half an hour and he desperately wanted more but he couldn’t ask for it without drawing attention to himself. Purposely bumping into the son outside Cobol had already pushed things too far. It would look suspicious for him to be at the same place again. Anyone would figure out they were being followed.

He continued to watch, ordering another drink—followed quickly by another—and keeping his eyes on the son. There was something about him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, as though the son was holding himself back so he wouldn’t gather up too much attention. He wanted to examine  _ why _ but that wasn’t what he had been paid to do. All he had to do was gather enough information to start tearing Cobol down. The son was a stepping stone, a tool to be used for the greater good, learning any extra information was pointless, it wouldn’t help the case in the slightest.

But, as he watched the son pour a drunk brunette into the back of a cab, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what made him this selfless, so happy to help others while letting them take all the credit.


	4. Chapter 4

The house was quiet; comfortable in its silence.

Since his mother had passed, Arthur had spent most of his time in the house alone. His father was what people liked to call a ‘workaholic’ but Arthur knew a lot of it came down to how much Arthur reminded his father of her. He always spoke of how they had the same eyes, same dark hair, same smile. There were a few pictures scattered around the rooms but Arthur couldn’t see the resemblance. He just took his father’s word, on that at least.

“Are you going to the club?” Ari asked, her excitement nearly palpable through the phone.

“Not sure. I was thinking of having a quiet night in,” Arthur replied, thinking of the scales he should have been doing, the paper that wasn’t going to write itself.

“Please,” Ari whined. Since she’d woken up, she had been hounding Arthur to take her to the club again because he wasn’t going to be performing. That had been her main argument: because he wasn’t playing, he could actually enjoy her company properly. It was tempting, Arthur couldn’t deny that, but he’d never been to the club when he wasn’t performing. He wasn’t sure he would actually be able to enjoy it properly. “Come on, Arthur, live a little.”

Arthur sighed, resting his forehead against the wall of his bedroom, the cool plaster a welcome relief from the fight warring inside of him. “Fine,” he agreed. “But I’m not getting there any earlier than nine and I’m leaving by twelve.”

“Whatever you say, princess. Just make sure you look pretty.” She hung up before he could complain about the nickname—she seemed to have an endless supply of irritating names to call him—or argue that he always looked pretty. Ari was the one that needed a reminder and Arthur briefly contemplated sending her a message telling her not to wear a scarf, but figuring his life was more valuable than dying by tiny person, he slipped the phone into his pocket and shuffled off to his piano. There were still enough hours in the day to get some practice in before he had to worry about getting ready.

Arthur sat at the stool, shifting his hips until he was comfortable. There was no need to adjust anything because he was the only person that played, since his mother had passed.

His mother.

Arthur let his mind wander, remembering vague pieces of her: dark hair that flowed in soft curves past her shoulders, ruby red lips, warm eyes that always seemed as though they were smiling. As the years passed, the memories had faded, bits and pieces of her becoming diluted with age.

It was infuriating. The harder he tried to hold onto those memories, the faster they seemed to slip away, like sand falling through his fingers. Was it really too much to hold just one memory of her longer than the rest? Was it too much to think he might keep it for the entirety of his life?

He stroked the keys, pressing a few haphazardly.

He wasn’t in the mood for scales anymore.

Before he really knew what he was playing, the soft opening floated to him and everything came back. There was always one thing he could turn to: Clair de Lune.

Every time she had sat Arthur next to her at the piano, she had played that song and it had quickly become theirs, something they did without anyone else intruding. She had taught it to him not long before she had died and, even though the song was tinged with her loss, Arthur still played it.

Sometimes it was so he could feel something, an ache deep inside his chest that reminded him he was still alive, could still be hurt by things. Other times it was because it was the only thing he could think of, the song dogging him for hours and begging to be played. It was those moments that made Arthur think his mother still lingered, desperate to be released through her favourite piece. Most of the time, he knew she was gone, though. Never to return, not even for a brief second when he thought he could feel her sitting next to him, her fingers laying on top of his as she showed him which keys to press.

When the last note rang out, finally dying and leaving Arthur with nothing but his harsh breathing, he closed his eyes. It felt as though a wound had reopened inside him and all he could do was press against it in a vain attempt to stop the flow of blood.

“Stupid,” he muttered and pushed away from the piano, refusing to let the ache he still felt stop him from following through on spending an evening with Ari.

—

Being with the general public wasn’t what Arthur was used to or enjoyed. After ten minutes mingling with people that figured out who he was and had subsequently realised Mal wasn’t around, Arthur was ready to bolt.

He was contemplating faking an upset stomach when Ari tugged on his arm, desperate to get his attention.

“What?” he mumbled, sulking because all he really wanted was to be at home maybe playing a sonata or an opus.

“This is Eames,” Ari said as though Arthur was meant to know what that meant.

“Sorry? What’s an Eames?”

“That would be me.”

Arthur’s head snapped up, meeting blue eyes and lips that tugged at his memory. He would have remembered meeting someone this pretty, though. Suddenly he was very aware of the vest he was wearing, the dark blue chinos, the brown boots. He felt underdressed, entirely unfashionable and miles out of his league.

He should have worn his blazer.

“Eames was asking if you were playing tonight,” Ari said, speaking over Arthur’s obvious silence. “Apparently he was here last night and saw you.”

Blue eyes. Full lips.

He should have been horrified when it dawned on him. The strange feeling of having met this person before was because he had outside Cobol. Was he being stalked? The idea was laughable. No one in their right mind would stalk Arthur. He was boring, run of the mill, plain as white bread. If he had a stalker, it certainly wouldn’t be someone that looked that good.

“He’s not playing tonight,” Ari said, answering for Arthur since he clearly spent too long without speaking.

“Pity,” Eames replied and Arthur tried not to be charmed by that British accent or the way those plush lips turned up into a small smile as though there was some joke that Arthur was missing out on.

“He plays on Wednesdays and Fridays,” Ari said, once again covering Arthur’s silence.

At this rate, Eames was going to think Arthur was stupid or maybe mute. He wasn’t sure if one would be better than the other, but the moment the thought flitted through his head, Arthur knew it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Eames to know he was clever, to show that he was capable of holding a conversation, and—most importantly—he wanted Eames to know that Ari wasn’t his girlfriend.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Ari nodded, agreeing readily and pushing Arthur to follow Eames without actually asking another question. They had come together and she was going to leave him alone with a stranger that was potentially stalking him?

Arthur shot a look over his shoulder, silently pleading with Ari to fix this somehow but she just winked and turned away. Arthur lost sight of her in the crowd as a hand pressed to the small of his back, warm, soft, big. Eames.

“Sorry, I think I missed the question,” Arthur said, warmth spreading through him from both embarrassment and Eames’ touch.

Eames smiled and Arthur was almost stunned enough to miss the question a second time.

“What would you like?”

That seemed like a loaded question. Arthur wanted to do a million things and most of them involved those delicious lips pressed to various parts of Arthur’s body, namely one that was starting to make its presence known. The thought stuck, though, no matter how much Arthur tried to sway himself towards more innocent pastures. Eames’ lips wrapped around his dick would be the prettiest sight he had ever seen, he was sure of that.

“Laphroig,” Yusuf said, placing said drink in front of Arthur on the bar and interrupting his inappropriate thoughts. “He doesn’t drink anything else, fussy bastard.”

At least Arthur knew not to trust Yusuf with helping him pull. “Thanks,” he muttered, shooting a glare at Yusuf as he turned around. He knew it was rude, exponentially rude, but Arthur walked away from the bar, leaving Eames behind. His mother would have been appalled but it didn’t matter because the moment Arthur sat down in a dimly lit booth, Eames was there, sliding in next to him.

“Interesting crowd,” Eames commented, looking out over the patrons.

Arthur couldn’t disagree. Jazz clubs tended to attract a very particular sort of person and Eames didn’t exactly fit that mold. He wondered what had originally brought Eames in, whether it was a spur of the moment decision or if he had been drawn in by something else entirely.

“They’re good enough,” Arthur said with a shrug, watching as Mal walked out onto the stage.

She looked as lovely as always. Her dress was floor-length—as Mal always wore on stage—with a silver bodice that caught the light, reflecting as though she was a mirror. The bottom half of the dress was grey tulle, floating around her and making her look more ethereal than usual. She looked as though she belonged in a castle, surrounded by mere peasants. Though, Arthur thought that she practically was already. The club was her castle and she reigned effortlessly. The rest of them were mere players in her game.

“She sings without you?”

“Of course.”

Mal wasn’t the kind of woman you bound to just one man. How Dom had ever managed it eluded Arthur but he wasn’t going to think about the fact that maybe Dom was a wizard in the bedroom. He didn’t need those kind of mental images rolling around in there.

“Seems a shame. You were so lovely together.”

“She is lovely,” Arthur sighed, eyes glued to Mal, her smoky voice drifting over him, begging him to come closer. But Arthur knew the closer he got, the brighter the flames burned. He was happy with his distance. Mal was his best friend, he didn’t need to get any closer than that. “Would you like to meet her?” Arthur asked after a beat, realising possibly too late that Eames may be more interested in her and was only using him to get closer. It would be a shame but nothing he hadn’t experienced before.

“Another day, perhaps.”

Arthur peeked at Eames, cheeks warming when their eyes met. He supposed that put an end to the thought that Eames wanted Mal.

“Do you wanna get out of here?”

—

Apparently Eames’ favourite place in all of New York was a diner near Penn Station. Arthur had never been there but, the moment he saw they had Nutella french toast, he was sold on the place.

They ordered coffee, even though Arthur usually followed a strict ‘no caffeine after eight o’clock’ rule. There was something about Eames that made him want to mix things up, maybe pretend he was far more flexible than he actually was. Maybe it boiled down to the fact that Arthur just wanted to impress Eames. No matter what it was, Arthur didn’t care. The coffee tasted good. The french toast was even better.

“You don’t like Nutella?” Arthur asked around a mouthful of the delicious food that was soaking up the alcohol in his system. Apparently it wasn’t doing its job fast enough though because there were a million stupid questions on the tip of his tongue but Nutella seemed to be the most pressing.

“I didn’t say I didn’t  _ like _ it—”

“But you did,” Arthur countered after he’d swallowed the food in his mouth. Sure, he was still tipsy, but he had manners. They weren’t as good as they once had been but they were still there all the same.

“If I recall, I said that there were far better things to have with french toast,” Eames said, eyes crinkling in amusement. At least, Arthur hoped it was due to amusement.

“Like?”

Arthur cut another piece of his meal while waiting for Eames.

“Blueberries, strawberries, raspberries—”

“Berries of any kind, got it. But chocolate spread is still the best.”

Eames laughed, tipping his head back, eyes closing. It was mesmerising, the way Eames’ neck stretched into a long line, taunting Arthur with a hint of stubble that he was not thinking about rubbing against him. Not at all.

“Should I be getting you home?” Eames abruptly asked. “It’s not past your bedtime?” That was definitely the right question to kill any hope Arthur had been building.

He set the cutlery down, placing them neatly together on top of the remaining food on the plate. “I’ll be fine,” he said, eyes cast down as he pulled his wallet out and threw a few notes down. He wasn’t sure how much he had left behind but he hoped it was more than enough to cover the food and a decent tip.

“Arthur,” Eames said, voice soft but determined as Arthur slid from the booth.

“Thanks for the food,” Arthur replied, offering a small smile and a brief glance at his face before turning around and leaving the diner.

When he was outside, collar turned up against the cold, Arthur hailed a cab, rattling off his address. Eames didn’t follow him out which was a small mercy but it didn’t make him feel any better. Arthur wasn’t sure how much of a fool he had made of himself. Ari would only be of so much help when he attempted to rehash how things had taken that turn.

Sliding his key into the lock, finding the lights all turned off and presumably that his father was in bed asleep, Arthur came to the realisation that while he had had fun chatting with Eames, that was all he had needed it to be. It was a pleasant change from how his evenings usually turned out and so he planned to thank Ari the next time he saw her but he wasn’t going to let the ending ruin things. Eames had been charming, enough to take Arthur’s mind off the decisions he still needed to make.

That was all he had needed.

He was sure of it.


	5. Chapter 5

There were other people that Eames preferred working with but Nash was cheap and convenient. He wasn’t the best by far— _ Eames _ was the best—but he did in a pinch.

“I can’t possibly have all of this done in two days,” Nash complained, his voice as oily as he looked.

“That so?” Eames asked, inspecting his nails as he feigned disinterest. “I could do it in one.”

“Why aren’t you, then?”

It was a fair enough question and one Eames had thought about considerably before making his decision. The documents he was asking for weren’t exactly of the legal sort and he needed to have plausible deniability when they came to light. Throwing Nash under the bus would do everyone a favour, really. Eames figured he was doing his civil service in more ways than one on this job. But Nash didn’t need to know any of that.

“I’ll double your usual fee,” Eames said instead of answering the question.

“Fine,” Nash grumbled. “Half up front.”

Eames reached into his jacket, pulling a stack of bills from an inside pocket and setting them on the table that stood between Nash and himself. “But the rest isn’t coming until I see the documents and only if they’re up to snuff.”

Nash nodded, sliding the money to him and dropping it into a drawer Eames hadn’t seen before. At least the man still had some secrets but he’d made the mistake of letting Eames see it. Now he knew where to look when he came back.

“Nice doing business with you.”

Eames grunted and left Nash’s pokey little apartment. The cool air was refreshing after spending so long inside that stuffy one bedroom place. Really it was a studio apartment but he wasn’t going to comment on how Nash had put up a sheet and pretended it separated the room well enough. He favoured open spaces, enjoying being able to look up and know that he couldn’t reach the top of anything even if he tried; wide open spaces, the endless possibilities stretching before him were what Eames enjoyed the most.

Sorting this deal with Nash had crossed one thing off his to-do list. He only had a few more things to finish before he went to the club. Eames knew Arthur wouldn’t be there, Ariadne had very helpfully informed him of which days Arthur played, but that wasn’t his purpose for the evening. Eames wanted to get a better feel for the place, the owners, even the bartender. He wanted to see what drew Arthur there over and over and what it was about that dark-haired beauty that seemed to entrance him so.

Walter Wright was a slippery bastard and Eames was certain Arthur was his way to discovering every dirty little detail he would need to prove every accusation of embezzlement and insider trading.

—

Level 3 was unsurprisingly quiet for a Tuesday evening. Eames didn’t expect the place to get particularly rowdy or full. It might not have been the best time to come since he was sure to be remembered, but it was almost perfect for what he wanted. There were a few patrons, probably the most dedicated fans, and Eames found that he didn’t mind. It gave him room to take a spot at the bar and watch Yusuf—Eames had made sure to learn his name—swan around, making drinks in a rather flashy manner.

“You called it a what?” Eames asked, fascinated with the twirls and flourishes, marvelling that somehow Yusuf hadn’t managed to drop a single bottle.

“Zero G. I’m hoping to try it on Arthur tomorrow night,” Yusuf replied with a devious grin.

“I really don’t envy him.”

Yusuf winked and Eames couldn’t stop the grin from spreading. He was rather liking Yusuf. If things were different, Eames was positive they would have made great friends but, after Eames finished his job, Eames was fairly certain he wouldn’t be welcomed back into the club. It was the way things tended to work. People didn’t take well to people that ‘betrayed’ them. At least they hadn’t, in Eames’ experience. Robert flashed in his mind, the desperately hurt look that had cut right through him the last time they’d seen each other. It hadn’t panned out the way Eames had planned. He’d thought of Robert like a friend, probably the best friend he’d had in awhile. Eames hadn’t wanted to taint that with false intimacy but he never shied away from a challenge. Fischer had been a challenge and Robert had been the only way to get him to crack.

There weren’t many things Eames regretted, but losing Robert as a friend was most definitely one of them.

“He’ll love it,” Yusuf said, sliding a glass of the said drink in front of Eames. “Though, I’m pretty sure the hangover the next day will be worth it.”

Eames laughed, being pulled from his introspective musings with little effort. Really, he shouldn’t have been out when he was in this mood but he had a job to do and, no matter how he felt, Eames always did his job.

“I’m not convinced that this won’t kill me,” Eames said, tilting his head while he inspected the amber liquid.

“You don’t trust me? I’m hurt.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“Well, that’s a minor problem,” Yusuf said with a small shrug and Eames already felt his loss.

“At least I know where to haunt you,” Eames muttered and picked up the shot glass, downing the whole thing in one go. It burned, making his eyes water as he sputtered, slamming the glass on the bar.

“Looking at you, no one would ever guess you were such a pansy.”

Eames glared at Yusuf but knew it fell short of his usual disdainful looks, though Yusuf’s snigger as he placed a glass of water in front of him made things infinitely worse. Eames had a reputation and it was about to be foiled by a flashy bartender. At least he’d sorted out the deal with Nash already.

Ticking items off his list was the easy part. He had spent all of yesterday waiting for Walter to make a move, leave his building and go somewhere that wasn’t just home. But it had been a boring day. Apparently even Walter hated Monday’s. That was what Ariadne had told him when he’d ‘bumped’ into her at the coffee cart just outside Cobol. He had stored that tidbit in his head much like he was storing all sorts of details about Level 3.

Mal—Yusuf had helpfully told him the names of the owners—wasn’t singing tonight, instead she was wandering the club, mingling with the few patrons that were there at eight o’clock on a Tuesday evening. There was something about the way she floated through the room, gliding with an ease that Eames envied. If he was a few years younger, Eames would have been willing to get close to her just so he could say he had known her while she was still shining as bright as a raging fire. But, these days, Eames was happy to spend his nights alone if it meant he wasn’t running the risk of being burnt to a crisp.

“Another?” Yusuf asked, grabbing Eames’ attention again.

Eames shook his head. The one shot he’d done was more than enough to addle his brain and he needed all of his senses to file away information he’d need later. “I still need to be able to walk when I try to leave.”

Yusuf raised his brows, shaking his head. “Pansy,” he mumbled and shuffled off to the other end of the bar, leaving Eames free to watch the patrons.

—

Eames spent another half hour in the club, enjoying the music and company. One of the groups of jazz enthusiasts had invited him to their table and began informing him of basically the entire history of jazz. It had taken a few minutes to extricate himself from that unfortunate situation and as soon as he was free of them, Mal had grabbed him, linking her arm through his as she led him to the exit.

“I saw you with Arthur on Saturday,” she said without preamble, fingers digging into his bicep when he tensed.

“Arthur?”

“I know he left with you. I haven’t heard from him since. What did you do?”

“What do you mean?” It didn’t seem suspicious to him. People frequently went days without getting in touch with him and it certainly seemed that Arthur was the kind of person to retreat and withhold outside communication. But, Eames had to concede that he didn’t  _ know _ for certain that Arthur did that sort of stuff. For all he knew, Arthur had gone home and downed a bottle of tequila after he left the diner. Eames had thought everything went according to plan. Perhaps Arthur had thought differently.

“Do not play coy, it is unbecoming and the English rarely do it well,” she said, her accent thickening with disdain.

There were a limited number of ways that Eames could pull this whole thing off. With the information he had gathered, he knew that Mal and Arthur were ridiculously close and thus this was her way of vetting him. It also meant that he had to be extremely careful with his next few answers. If he indicated he’d done something wrong, Eames wasn’t certain he would be walking out of the club.

“Mal, may I call you Mal?” Eames asked, pausing a few steps from the door. She nodded once, barely actually moving at all, but it was enough consent for Eames. “Arthur and I got some food once we left the club. Then we went our separate ways. I’m not sure what you might be thinking right now, but I can promise you that I have played no part in whatever made him go radio silent.” Eames hoped his voice was sincere enough that Mal believed him. It was the truth, as far as Eames knew. He couldn’t actually say with absolute belief that he played no part because he didn’t know what Arthur was thinking. But he was fairly sure he was safe in that department. One meal at a diner in the early hours of the morning didn’t offer the chance for hurt feelings.

“Bien. That will do,” she said and slipped her arm from his, his skin tingling where she had held on so tightly just seconds before. “Enjoy your evening.” She slipped away, hips swaying ever so slightly as she waved and smiled at patrons.

Eames left the club uncertain, a strange sensation of having been seen through coiling deep inside. It had been a long time since anyone had gotten under his skin like Mal had and he wasn’t sure he liked it. He could see why Arthur had a fascination with her, it was plain as day. But it didn’t bode well for Eames getting closer to Arthur without any obstacles. He needed to make sure Mal didn’t catch on, or that she hadn’t already cottoned on to him being less than truthful.

As he slipped into a taxi, his phone vibrated, informing him that his benefactor was ready to meet for an update. It didn’t feel like it had been long enough for Eames to have anything to show but he did as he was told, or as he was paid. But first he needed to find something concrete, something to get him the bonus his benefactor was offering.

Eames needed Arthur to catch Walter and he was going to do anything to make that happen.


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur was exhausted by the time he sank into the couch. He’d played his set at the club, had a drink—or two, possibly three—that had left him warm all over, and even danced with Mal. It had been a typical night, as he had expected.

But the whole day had dragged; his classes seeming longer than usual, the hour alone with his piano like pulling teeth. He had refused to think that there was something bugging him, niggling at the back of his mind. Now, as he was wriggling under the blankets even further, Arthur couldn’t deny it anymore. He had spent the entire day hoping that Eames would be at the club so Arthur could see him again.

When he’d walked into Level 3 through the backdoor, Arthur had been jittery, over-excited by the idea that he might get to see those ever-changing blue eyes or those soft lips. The anticipation had seen him through getting ready, tying his tie in a perfect full windsor knot, buttoning his waistcoat, and even through stepping out on stage. It wasn’t until he had walked to the bar, half-expecting Eames to come over to him, that Arthur had realised he hadn’t even showed up.

Of course, Eames hadn’t been there. It had been stupid to think that he would be.

“You’re still awake?” Dom asked, soft footsteps finally catching up to Arthur.

“There’s a lot on my mind,” Arthur said. He might have been comfortable around the guy, but he wasn’t willing to give him full insight into his mind. Letting someone like Dom into his deepest thoughts seemed too scary to get past for Arthur.

Dom nodded solemnly, his somber expression easy to pick up even in the dim light. “Mal’s mentioned you’ve got a few big decisions.”

“Yeah…” He wondered how much she’d told Dom and desperately hoped she’d kept most of it to herself. Arthur didn’t want to deal with the panic attack that would result if Dom knew he was contemplating giving up jazz entirely.

“Well, I’m gonna head to bed. You try and get some sleep.”

Arthur nodded, trying to cover his wince at the awkward tone. “Will do.”

Dom’s footsteps retreating was the only sound for a few seconds before they paused, a soft swish of Dom turning around following quickly. “You’re always welcome here, Arthur,” Dom said, strangely serious but lacking the usually uncomfortable nature his words usually held. “No matter what.” With that, Dom left the living room, not waiting for Arthur to respond—not that he could have actually formed words. Mal had said the same thing repeatedly, always making sure Arthur knew they were sincere, but somehow Dom’s resonated deeper, sticking in a way Mal’s never had.

Arthur had no idea what to do with these new feelings surging through him. They weren’t making it any easier to fall asleep, though.

He laid awake for hours, thoughts swimming through his head, and eventually he nodded off as the sun was rising, casting the living room in a warm orange hue.

—

His fingers ached in a way they hadn’t since he’d first started playing the piano. He wanted to escape, have a bath to soak up some of the warmth, but Miles wasn’t having a bar of it. Miles had demanded that Arthur see him during office hours and, as much as Arthur didn’t want to, he didn’t have it in him to refuse.

Arthur knocked, three rapid raps of his knuckles, and leaned back on his heels as he waited for Miles to call out.

Instead, the door opened.

Arthur stepped back, allowing the other person to walk past but something tugged his gaze, dragging his eyes from the floor where they’d stubbornly fallen at the sudden appearance of another human being.

“Eames,” he breathed, doubt coursing through him. It wasn’t possible and yet, there he was, turning around and flashing that perfectly crooked smile at him.

“Arthur,” Eames purred.

Of all the people in the world, Eames was the last he expected to see exiting his professor’s office. It was so far out of the realm of possibility that Arthur had never even considered it, had never had the thought flicker for the briefest of moments in his mind.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, unable to contain his curiosity or excitement.

“Arthur,” Miles said, covering the silence Eames had allowed. “Come in.”

Arthur hesitated, gaze darting between Eames and his professor for the barest of moments before Eames nodded towards the door, silently telling Arthur to go in. He wanted to stay, to talk to Eames, to invite him to the club again but Miles was calling him again and Eames was walking away, not even glancing over his shoulder before he turned the corner.

“Have you thought more on what we discussed last time?” Miles asked, gesturing for Arthur to take a seat as he did so behind his desk.

“Of course.”

“And?”

Arthur sighed, as much as he wanted to please everyone, he knew he was going to be letting someone down. He just didn’t want it to be himself. He hadn’t gotten far in that process, trying to figure out how to not let himself down. He knew the answer Miles and his father both wanted but it was too hard to say, to open his mouth and let the words spill out. That should have been answer enough, he supposed.

“I’m not sure.”

“Arthur,” Miles sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “You promised you would have a decision today.”

“I know.” He didn’t like letting down the Miles, making him frown that way. But how was he supposed to explain to his classical piano professor that jazz made him light up in a way the classics never did? How was he supposed to tell Miles that his daughter was to blame for everything? “Next time. Next month.”

“Next month? Arthur, you know they won’t wait that long for a response.”

“I know. I do,” he added at Miles’ frown. “I just need some more time to make sure I’m certain. It’s a big decision.” It was more than just big. It was life-changing and Arthur wasn’t convinced he wanted anything to change.

“I can only hold them off for so long. They’re considering Tadashi as well.”

“Tadashi? Are you fucking kidding me?” Arthur slapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he muttered despite Miles waving away his apology.

“I’ve heard worse. I’ve said worse. But Arthur, if you don’t want Tadashi to get the spot, I need your decision in the next few days. Can you do that for me?”

Arthur nodded.

“Alright. Off you trot then,” Miles said, leaning back in his chair and dismissing Arthur as always.

Out of Miles’ office, Arthur didn’t know what to do with himself. He wasn’t playing at the club that evening. His father was at the office until who knew when. He would be home alone. Arthur smiled, shifting the strap on his shoulder and headed for the subway. Potential plans running through his mind the whole way home.


	7. Chapter 7

There were better places for a private meeting but Eames saw the appeal of meeting in a public place. The sheer amount of people at the zoo meant they blended into the background, just another in a sea of faces.

“And you’re positive this is the way to get what I need?”

“Absolutely,” Eames said, keeping his gaze on the crowd. He could pick out the three men his benefactor came with for security. There was a distinct difference in them from the civilians milling around. The security continuously checked the crowd, keeping an eye out for anything that seemed wrong. Eames appreciated their diligence but, if he could figure it out, anyone that was trying to catch them would have as well.

“How long till I can move forward?”

Eames slid his eyes towards his benefactor. He was in a three-piece suit, buttoned up and perfectly groomed. “I can have something for you in a week, if you’re in a hurry.” It wasn’t his usual style to rush a job but, if the price was right, he would do just about anything.

“I want it done properly.”

They always did.

“A month,” Eames said, nodding once when he got a small flicker of a smile. It was an ambitious timeline but he was optimistic. Arthur seemed to be responding according to plan, if the look on his face yesterday was anything to go by.

“Keep me updated.”

Eames watched as his benefactor stood, adjusting his suit jacket and sparing one last look at Eames before bowing his head just a little and walking off without another word.

It was only the second time Eames had met the man but the sense of foreboding was still as strong as the first time. Eames was positive the man could conquer the world with a simple twitch of an eyebrow. He needed to make sure everything went smoothly. Eames didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that man’s ire. 

He waited an extra half hour after his benefactor left before leaving as well. Home beckoned, along with a good long shower, and a change of clothes.

—

The club was the same as it had been the last time Eames was there. The only difference was that Arthur was on stage, waistcoat accentuating his trim waist, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slicked back. Eames knew he would be there, it was part of the plan, but there was something different about the way he was holding himself and Eames knew he couldn’t let on that he could tell something was off. Eames the photographer wasn’t supposed to know Arthur that well. Eames the photographer and Arthur had only met a handful of times. Eames the investigator knew that Arthur had skipped every single class today after an argument with his father. Pretending was second nature to him, though.

“You have returned.”

Eames smiled at Mal when she sat next to him. “Are you that surprised?”

“Not at all.”

“Why aren’t you up there with him?” Eames asked, waving down Yusuf and asking for a whiskey, neat, while he waited for Mal’s response. She was looking at the stage, a fondness softening her features. If Eames was a better man, it would have been enough to make him reconsider what he was doing. But it was a lot of money to turn down over a single look.

“Arthur needed to be alone tonight,” she said without turning back to Eames. “Leave him be.”

Mal left as Yusuf slid the drink to Eames.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the glass and spinning on the stool. He wanted a better view of the stage, a better view of Arthur and what his face was doing. But Mal was still on the floor, eyeing him warily. There was no way he was going to push his luck with Mal looking at him like she would gut him if he even looked at Arthur the wrong way.

Perhaps coming to the club had been the wrong choice after all.

“His set’s almost over,” Yusuf said, dragging Eames’ gaze from Mal for a brief second.

“That so?”

“Mal’s on straight after.”

“Why are you telling me this?” From his research, Eames hadn’t gleaned much on Yusuf. The man didn’t really rate in Arthur’s world so Eames had done a cursory check. The file was so thin, it barely warranted actually keeping. But Eames didn’t get rid of anything to do with a job. That was up to the client when he handed everything over.

“Because I don’t think Arthur wants to be alone tonight.” Yusuf raised his brows, tilting his head briefly before shuffling off to deal with another patron.

Of all the things that had happened to him, Eames had to rate that interaction as one of the strangest. People usually went out of their way to keep Eames from people they cared about and from what he’d gathered, Yusuf and Arthur were friends. It didn’t seem likely that Yusuf would encourage a stranger.

Figuring he wasn’t going to get any clarity staring at Yusuf, Eames turned his attention to Arthur who was finishing on stage with a bow to the audience and a small smile as Mal took over, charming everyone with her delightful French ways. It was a stark contrast from the talk she had had with him just moments ago. Eames was definitely going to have to watch she didn’t get too close to the truth.

“Give him this,” Yusuf said, sliding an amber-coloured drink over and winking before dashing off to the other end of the bar.

In any other situation, Eames was positive Yusuf would make a very good friend.

Arthur sidled up to the bar, dragging a hand over his hair and calling for Yusuf who was pointedly ignoring him. “Come on, Yusuf. I need a drink,” he whined, leaning over the bar like he would climb over and get his own drink if given half a chance.

“Here,” Eames said, sliding the drink Yusuf had given him over. He wasn’t sure what it was but it seemed safe enough to offer.

Arthur spared Eames a brief glance, frowning at the drink. “Uh… Thanks but no thanks. I can get my own. If Yusuf would just look at me.”

“He left this for you,” Eames said, nudging the glass closer and turning his gaze to the stage where Mal was draped over a chaise lounge, dark hair pooling beneath her as she introduced the next song:  _ My Funny Valentine _ .

“Thanks,” Arthur murmured, downing the drink in one go. He didn’t even wince once, just set the glass down and attempted to wave Yusuf over again.

“Hard day?”

“You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Eames took a sip, running through plans in his head. He still didn’t have enough data on Arthur to make an educated guess as to what would actually help.

“Wanna get out of here?” Eames ventured, risking a look at Arthur who was frowning at him now instead of Yusuf. “Get something to eat. Maybe french toast with nutella again?”

“No,” Arthur said and pushed off the bar, walking backstage without looking back.

Mal’s smokey voice filled the space Arthur had just left, her words slipping beneath Eames’ skin making him itch. He needed to get out of there, regroup, collect his thoughts, and come up with a new plan of attack.

Eames finished off his drink, threw a few bills on the bar, and waved at Yusuf as he pushed through the crowd to the exit.

—

Three drinks in and Eames still couldn’t figure out what had happened. It wasn’t as though he’d never been rejected before, it had happened fairly frequently actually, but something about the way Arthur turned him down had thrown him. It had seemed like the perfect time to approach Arthur, he was struggling with something personal, he wanted to be alone, it all added up wanting something. Eames wasn’t used to not being that something.

How was he supposed to do his job if the mark wouldn’t let him in?

Eames growled and knocked back the drink, leaving his comfortable armchair in favour of his dark room. There were pictures that still needed developing and since he had no other plans for the evening, figured it was as good a time as any.

He was lucky to have found a two-bedroom place in the city where he could convert the second bedroom into a darkroom. The windows of the second room had been blacked out, one of the two recessed lights swapped for a red one. It was actually the most sophisticated setup Eames had had the pleasure of using since uni. Normally he was trying to develop pictures in a cramped closet, hoping no light would peek through any gaps he’d missed.

Eames grabbed the reel of negatives he’d developed, scanning for the ones that would be most useful. Most were useless, shots of Walter entering his office, getting out of cars, on the phone. Nothing stood out as something that could be used against him.

But there was one that stood out.

Eames switched on the light table, setting the reel on top and grabbing a loupe to get a better look. Looking through the magnifier, Eames shifted it around until he got the best view of Arthur’s sardonic smile. He remembered the day he’d taken that picture. Arthur had been having coffee with Ariadne, a ritual the two seemed to partake in twice a week, and he’d gotten a far-off look, staring out into nothing for a few seconds before Ariadne had said something worthy of that smile.

It was a spur of the moment decision that had Eames switching off the white light and enlarging the negative, printing it onto paper that he had planned to use for a real project. He swished the photo in the developer, watching as Arthur’s face slowly came into view. Light as a smudge, barely anything until his smile was there, one dimple pressing deeply into a cheek.

Eames pulled the photo out, using soft-gripped tongs to shake the excess chemicals off before dipping it into the stop bath. It was a little boring, Eames wanted the picture ready immediately but there was still too long to wait. He sighed heavily, shifting the photo to the next bath when the timer went off.

Even after that was done, he had to wait for the image to dry before he could handle it the way he wanted to.

He couldn’t place why he needed the picture, why it felt like an itch burrowing under his skin. It wasn’t news to him that he thought Arthur was gorgeous but something deeper was driving him, forcing him to work through the developing process as fast as the chemicals would allow.

When the picture was finally hanging, Eames switched back to the white light and sat, staring at Arthur’s face as it dried.

Before Arthur had turned him down, Eames had been looking forward to spending a bit of time with Arthur, maybe finding out a few personal details to help pad his file. But the rejection had stung in a way Eames wasn’t used to, in a way he hadn’t felt for years. Normally giving his mark some distance made them want him all that much more when he finally came back. But Arthur seemed to be different.

His usual tricks weren’t going to work. Eames was going to have to work that much harder to get Arthur to succumb, to entrust him with all his father’s dirty little secrets.

He had no idea where to start.

“Bugger.”


	8. Chapter 8

“If you just talked to him, I’m sure he’d understand.”

Arthur snorted, tugging on Ari’s arm to stop her from being run over by a cab. “Can you not die before I get my coffee?”

“Only if you promise to talk to your dad,” she said, tugging on his arm in return to drag him across the street. Several cars honked at them, brakes squealing as Ari led the way.

Arthur waved at drivers, offering a small wry smile in the most apologetic way possible. Ari was tiny but she was fierce and Arthur figured he was safer taking his chances against the cars than trying to go against her.

“Even if I tried to have an honest conversation with him, he wouldn’t listen,” Arthur said as Ari linked her arm through his. “It doesn’t help that I can’t decide. Why can’t everything stay the same?”

“Because that would be boring and you’re anything but, right?” Ari teased, her smile falling short when she looked up at him. “Arthur, if you just tell him what you want, he’ll understand. I know it.”

Arthur slipped free from Ari’s grip, not stepping out of her reach but giving himself enough space to breathe and get the words out as clearly as he could. “Even if I knew what I wanted, which I don’t just so we’re clear, there’s no way to talk to him. He’s so caught up in his work. How am I supposed to talk to him if he’s never at home?”

“Make an appointment?”

“Ari…”

“No, okay, look.” Ari stepped in front of him, stopping Arthur from going any further without trampling her. “In all seriousness, I can add things to his calendar. You want him at home for a talk? I’ll put it in. He has to do it if it’s in there.”

“I know you’re trying to help—”

“I’m not  _ trying _ . I am helping.” She pulled out her mobile, opening the calendar app with a few quick swipes. “Tomorrow? Or maybe Friday? Actually, Friday would be best. He has a meeting at one then he’s free for the rest of the day. What time would be best for you?” Ari asked, flicking her gaze up.

“Ari, come on. Let’s just go get coffee like we had planned.” As much as it actually thrilled Arthur, the prospect of talking to his father, he was terrified of trying to put anything into words.

“How does six sound to you? Oh! I could book a table at Sant Ambroeus. Dinner and a conversation. That works,” she murmured to herself, fingers flying faster than Arthur would ever have thought possible.

Arthur stared at her, mouth opening and closing, scrambling for words that wouldn’t come. He knew Ari was a force to be reckoned with but this was unbelievable. No matter what he said, the calendar appointment had been made. His father would get a notification. There was no taking it back.

“Alright, you owe me a triple shot soy macchiato with extra foam. I’m thinking extra large today,” Ari said, slipping her phone back into her purse and turning on her heel as though she hadn’t thrown Arthur’s afternoon into disarray.

Arthur hurried after her, a sudden flurry of words bubbling out of him. “Ari. Ari, stop,” he called, lengthening his stride to catch up.

“Hello, darling.”

Arthur froze, hand reaching out to grab Ari who had paused at the door to the cafe they usually spent their afternoon dates in. Standing in the doorway, in an unfairly attractive denim jacket with a sheepskin collar, was Eames. He looked perky, downright happy at this sudden meeting. But Arthur couldn’t return the smile, not with his stomach twisting in knots.

“You know Arthur?” Ari asked, perking up and filling the silence Arthur had left. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say I  _ know _ Arthur but we’ve met once or twice.”

Ari glanced at Arthur, raising an eyebrow in expectation of an answer from him.

Something strange curled in his belly, stretching up, through his chest and into his throat. Despite the chill in the air, Arthur was hot, flustered and ready to make a break for it. “I forgot I had a meeting with Miles. Coffee is on me next time,” Arthur said, not making eye contact with Eames or Ari.

He knew Ari would have a million questions—and wouldn’t hesitate to ask them for a second—but as Arthur walked away, he couldn’t bring himself to care. There was something about Eames, something that scared and enticed him at the same time. Arthur couldn’t figure out which feeling was the more powerful even though he knew he didn’t need an added distraction of trying to figure out a stranger.

“You’re a disaster,” Arthur muttered as he descended into the subway, not wanting to deal with attempting to hail a cab, not when Eames or Ari could easily catch up to him.

Arthur sat on the train, squashed between an elderly man with a newspaper and a twenty-something punk with a yappy dog in her bag. He sighed heavily, earning him a disapproving tut from the gentleman next to him.

He muttered an apology and escaped at the next stop, not realising it was the wrong one until he was above ground again.

“Fuck.”

Arthur turned his collar up, burrowing into his coat and started the three-block walk home, determinedly not thinking about anything—or anyone—at all.

—

The restaurant was stunning, decorated just so to allude to the fact that it was Thanksgiving. It was exactly the kind of place he actively avoided so he wouldn’t be stereotyped. Arthur knew what he looked like, how he came across to strangers. Usually he didn’t care but this place was making him uneasy, digging into him and twisting everything the wrong way.

“It’s a bit elaborate, isn’t it?”

Arthur glanced at his father, tilting his head in question.

“The restaurant, the suit. If you wanted to tell me you were finally accepting the spot with the Philharmonic, we could have done this at home—”

“No, that’s not—”

“Though I have been wanting an excuse to come here. I suppose I should thank Ariadne. Would she like another Balenciaga, do you think?”

He should have known better, should have fought Ari harder when she’d put this in the calendar. His father was a piece of work. Arthur had no idea how he had convinced himself that this was a decent idea. The temptation to escape grew as his father continued to prattle on, ordering food for the both of them, swilling red wine and deeming it acceptable, taking a call, making plans for them once Arthur formally announced his acceptance.

“Dad,” Arthur cut in, unable to continue letting those words wash over him. He knew what his hesitation was, why he couldn’t decide one way or another. He wanted more, something else.

“Arthur,” his father responded cautiously, setting his cutlery down and leaning back in his seat.

“I need to talk to you.”

“So talk,” he said, waving a hand imperiously.

Now that the moment was there right in front of him, Arthur wasn’t sure of himself. How was he supposed to explain that everything he’d been working towards wasn’t enough? The Philharmonic. The jazz. His father. Ari. Mal and Dom. None of it was enough and with the words on the tip of his tongue, they tasted bitterly of greed, of selfishness, of everything Arthur hated about himself.

“I’m too busy to have my time wasted this way. Get on with it, Arthur.”

“Dad…”

“You can’t even tell me you’re rejecting the offer. Your mother would be ashamed of you,” his father growled, pushing his chair back.

“That’s unfair.”

“No. What’s unfair is you squandering your talent of this ridiculous fantasy of yours.”

“It’s not ridiculous.”

His father scoffed, rolling his eyes and standing. “It was her dying wish for you to follow your dreams and I’ve had enough of you wasting it on something so trivial.”

Arthur swallowed hard, his throat aching at the mention of his mother. He hadn’t known, had never heard his father mention a wish before.

“Get Ariadne to make an appointment when you’ve finally made an adult decision.” He buttoned his jacket and strode away, words echoing after him as Arthur watched.

Arthur stared after his father even after he couldn’t see him anymore. He sat, staring, until a waiter came and asked if he wanted to see a dessert menu.

—

Arthur had planned to hide in Mal and Dom’s apartment while he pretended to be ill so no one would attempt to talk to him. But Mal had taken one look at him and had dragged him to the bar. Now he was several drinks in and actually smiling. Tomorrow he would deal with everything else. Tonight he was going to enjoy the strong drinks Yusuf was making and the rich sound of Mal singing Billie Holiday songs.

“You have dimples, darling.”

Arthur leaned into the voice a little, the way those words rolled off Eames’ tongue. “I’m not ‘darling’,” he said, the denial heavy in his mouth. Maybe it was the alcohol swirling through him or the fact that Eames looked gorgeous in a dark blue shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to give a hint of ink underneath, but Arthur actually did want to be ‘darling’. Definitely the alcohol.

“How much have you had to drink, hmm?” Eames asked, stepping closer.

“Um…” Arthur thought, fingers flicking out as he counted.

“Best we get you home.”

“No,” Arthur blurted, knocking over the stool he’d been sitting on as he tried to escape Eames’ reach. “Can’t go home.”

“Why not?”

Arthur shook his head, searching for something to say that wouldn’t give everything away.

“Come on,” Eames said, stepping forward and slipping an arm around Arthur’s waist. “Let’s get some coffee in you and see if we can’t sober you up a bit.”

“Not home?” Arthur asked, leaning into Eames a bit more than was necessary.

“Not home.”

Arthur wasn’t sure where he had expected Eames to take him but an apartment in Brooklyn wouldn’t have been a possibility.

“Where are we?” he asked as Eames set him on a sofa, patting his shoulder twice before shuffling out of sight.

“My flat,” he called amidst a flurry of running water and clanging.

“Apartment,” Arthur corrected, resting his head on the back of the sofa and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt along with loosening his tie.

The noises from wherever Eames had gone grew but he didn’t return. It left Arthur in the awkward position of wanting to explore the new environment and succumbing to his exhaustion. The alcohol mixing with the come down from earlier was making him drowsy. Not to mention how comfortable the sofa was.

Arthur sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he let his eyes drift closed.

“Hey,” Eames murmured, gently nudging Arthur’s shoulder. “I need you to drink this, okay?”

Arthur blinked, Eames’ outstretched hand slowly coming into focus. “Is that vodka? I don’t think I should have more of that.”

“No. Only water.”

Arthur took the glass, sitting up with the help of Eames’ hand on his back. He gulped half of it down before Eames took the glass from him, claiming he needed to drink slowly or else he’d end the evening throwing up. It made a vague sort of sense. It was the same kind of reasoning his mother had used on him.

Arthur sucked in a harsh breath, eyes prickling at the memory.

“Darling?”

“Hmm? I’m fine,” he said, his throat feeling thick.

“Is there someone I can call for you?”

Arthur shook his head. He didn’t want to see anyone. Everyone would have too many questions and he really didn’t want to go over anything.

“Well, you’re welcome to kip on the couch for the night.”

“Kip?”

Eames laughed, the sound warming Arthur and bringing a smile to his lips. “Sleep. You can sleep here and reassess things in the morning. If you want.”

Arthur nodded, his smile shifting into something softer as he watched Eames move through his apartment getting blankets, pillows, filling Arthur’s glass, then realising Arthur couldn’t sleep in his suit and so Eames got a pair of sweats and a t-shirt before shoving them into Arthur’s arms and pointing him in the direction of the bathroom.

He stared at his reflection, picking at the collar of his shirt. The evening was supposed to have turned out much more different than it had but Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to be truly shocked. If he had thought about it clearly, he would have realised this was the only possible outcome.

“You right in there?” Eames called through the bathroom door, startling Arthur into action.

“Yeah, just a minute.” He grabbed the clothes Eames had given him and quickly changed, folding his suit the best he could do they wouldn’t look terrible the next day. He may have still been floating high on alcohol but he wasn’t about to ruin a Tom Ford.

The clothes were too big but they were soft and smelled of detergent and a cologne that was familiar enough to frustrate him. The name was just out of reach and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember it. He would have spent the entire evening in the bathroom attempting to place the scent if it wasn’t for a knock on the door and Eames calling his name, reminding him that he was actually in someone else’s home and couldn’t spend as long in the bathroom as he wanted.

“Sorry, it’s all yours,” he said, fingers lingering on the doorknob as he took Eames in. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest which only served to show off the muscles and more hints of tattoos Arthur was more than a little curious about.

“No worries. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t passed out in there,” Eames said, smiling and pushing off from the wall. “Sleeping on a cold loo floor isn’t pleasant. Trust me.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it.”

“Come on, I’ve sorted the couch and left some Advil with your water so make sure you actually take it, yeah?”

Arthur nodded, following Eames back to the living room. The sofa was made up, sheets perfectly tucked in, one corner turned down. “Do I get a chocolate as well?”

Eames quirked an eyebrow at him the joke going straight over his head.

“Forget it. I think I’m still drunk,” Arthur said, attempting to brush off his attempt at humour as he sat on the sofa. “Thanks, for letting me stay,” he added, glancing up at Eames who was still hovering as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite come up with the words.

“I’m just through there, if you need anything.” Eames pointed back down the hall they’d come from. “Just knock. I’m a pretty light sleeper.” With a small smile, Eames said goodnight and disappeared, leaving Arthur all alone in his living room.

Arthur climbed under the blankets, cocooning himself within them, and rolled so he faced out. Having his back covered by something fairly solid was reassuring considering he was sleeping in a stranger’s apartment. He huffed out an amused breath. There were a million ways staying the night could play out but Arthur figured if Eames was going to murder him in his sleep, at least the sofa was comfortable.


	9. Chapter 9

Slipping into the role of trusted friend was easy, far easier than Eames had expected. All his research on Arthur hadn’t led to much about his personality, and now that he was getting a front row seat he was surprisingly impressed. Arthur wasn’t nearly as uptight as Eames had thought. Despite being a pianist with a pending offer for a seat in the New York Philharmonic and being raised on the Upper East Side, Arthur fit into Eames’ life seamlessly. They spent hours sitting together in Eames’ apartment. Arthur was desperate to learn more about what Eames did, had a million questions about photography, and Eames found that he was more than happy to share this part of himself.

It took a while before Eames realised he was sharing real details. He wasn’t pretending to be something other than himself. 

It was nearing that time of year again, the holiday season looming and reminding Eames of his familial obligations. His father would expect a phone call, maybe even to Skype. Christmas always reminded them both of Eames’ mother and, for the first time in years, Eames wasn’t dreading calling his father. He could predict everything his father would say right down to the disappointed grimace he was sure to earn when he declared he wouldn’t be going home for another year, at least. That was reassuring, his father’s dependability. Arthur, on the other hand, terrified Eames. He had no idea what Arthur planned on doing for the holidays and Eames was scared to ask. He wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t know what Arthur would say, or because he wanted Arthur to ask if he could spend them with Eames.

When it came to his jobs, Eames was steady as a bloody rock; he had timelines, he stuck to the script. But there was something about Arthur that had thrown everything out the window and he wasn’t sure he could get back on track. Everything to do with Walter was right on schedule; the man apparently couldn’t keep his triumphs under wraps for very long. The only spanner in the works was Arthur.

Really it was just Eames screwing himself over.

He’d spent hours reminding himself of the paycheque, of the name he was building, the fact that Walter Wright deserved to go to jail for the insider trading and cheating his employees of their hard-earned money. But Eames was wavering and knew it wouldn’t take much for him to tip over the edge.

Eames needed to distance himself from Arthur.

[  _ I’ve got a peppermint mocha with your name on it. You home? _ ]

Eames had been staring at the message for five minutes debating whether or not to reply. The drink was his weakness, particularly if it had whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, and peppermint sprinkles on top, and Arthur had figured it out early on. But inviting Arthur into his home once again wasn’t going to help Eames’ dilemma.

[  _ Or there’s an eggnog latte if you’re looking to try something different. _ ]

Eames sighed and hit reply, sending off a quick message for Arthur to let him know when he was downstairs. He’d start distancing himself tomorrow.

Apparently Arthur wasn’t as far away as Eames had thought, buzzing to be let in a few seconds after Eames had sent his message. It didn’t leave him much time to shove his file on Walter into a drawer, stuffing the papers in the best he could so nothing would be poking out.

“Hey,” Arthur said, bouncing into Eames’ flat with the promised drink and a story about the barista that had made it. “They had this vine that disappeared under their sleeve, twisting around their arm with tiny little white blossoms all over it. I think they thought I was a freak for staring at it, but it was gorgeous.”

Eames nodded, not having anything to add lest he make a fool of himself. Arthur was enthusiastic and his dimples were pressing into his cheeks, trapping Eames more. He shouldn’t have let Arthur come over, shouldn’t have allowed Arthur to rhapsodise about a tattooed stranger, but Arthur’s voice soothed something inside him. Eames was pretty sure he would be able to listen to Arthur read from the bloody phone book and still pay attention to the whole thing.

“You’ve got some, don’t you?”

Eames froze, caught completely off-guard by the sudden question. “Got what?” He didn’t want to let on that he hadn’t actually been paying attention to what Arthur had been talking about—because he had—but he couldn’t connect what the question was actually pertaining to.

“Tattoos,” Arthur said, waving a hand in Eames’ general direction. “I think I’ve seen bits of things. So, I’m kind of assuming you’ve got some.”

Eames nodded. He had a multitude of tattoos, some that he regretted and others that he didn’t.

“Maybe you could show me sometime?” Arthur gave Eames an eager smile, making Eames agree without hesitation. Eames was certain those dimples could make him do anything, even run naked down Broadway in the middle of winter. “Now?”

Eames huffed out a laugh, taking a large gulp of his drink and burning his mouth before he realised Arthur was being serious. “Oh… um…” Eames wandered off to the kitchen, setting his drink on the counter. He wanted to show Arthur his tattoos, wanted to share that part of his history with someone who actually cared. But that was a dangerous path. Showing that much of himself was just asking for trouble and Eames did still have a job to do. “How about I show you my darkroom?” he asked instead, hoping to distract Arthur with something else he’d been asking about.

—

Eames scrolled through Netflix for something to watch. It was one of the few evenings where he was alone for the entire night, Arthur having prior engagements he couldn’t get out of and his latest batch of emails on Walter were sent off. It was for the best, Eames had had to remind himself. His attachment to Arthur was getting out of hand and some time apart—distancing himself from Arthur—was exactly what they both needed.

However, Arthur not being there meant Eames had to make his own decisions about what to watch. Arthur had taken to choosing what they watched, namely RuPaul's Drag Race. Every time Arthur put it on, Eames vehemently argued, claiming there had to be something better they could watch. But Arthur always got his way and, while Eames would never admit it aloud, he had actually grown to enjoy watching the show.

As he settled in to watch the latest episode, Eames contemplated taking a picture and sending it to Arthur, certain he would enjoy having brought Eames over to the dark side.

Ten minutes later, he pulled out his phone and took a selfie with the show on in the background. It wasn’t half-bad, he had to admit, and gave in to the desire to send the picture to Arthur. As he watched the little ‘delivered’ message pop up, Eames settled back, letting his mind wander as he watched the queen’s participate in another challenge.

They had slipped into a routine; Arthur would text in the morning and come over to Eames’ flat in the afternoon. Eames wasn’t sure when it had started but on the days Arthur didn’t text, Eames wasn’t quite sure what to do. He had plenty to occupy himself with—Walter was keeping him plenty busy—but there was something empty about not having Arthur spending time with him.

Eames hadn’t felt this comfortable being around another person since Robert. That alone should have raised red flags, setting Eames on edge since he’d royally screwed that over. Losing Robert as a friend was the only thing he regretted about how he’d dealt with the whole Fischer job. But, if he was being absolutely honest, Eames was happier than he had been in years. Just being around Arthur was better than any drug-induced high he’d ever experienced.

He could talk himself in circles for hours over the whole situation, memories of Robert reminding him why it was a terrible idea to get attached to someone central to a job. The fact that Eames was specifically hired to aid in sending Arthur’s father to prison for embezzlement and insider trading really didn’t lend itself to a happy ending. Eames knew that. He couldn’t seem to stop himself, though, no matter how hard he tried.

When the episode finished, Eames checked his phone, balking at the time. It was after midnight. Somehow, he’d spent hours watching Drag Race and Arthur wasn’t even there to blame it on. There also wasn’t a message from Arthur. Eames pushed the hurt aside and tossed the phone onto the coffee table. If it wasn’t near him, he would be less likely to check it. At least, that’s what Eames hoped as he went through his bedtime routine and settled into bed, falling asleep faster than he thought he would.

Eames woke, disoriented and sleeping sideways. The blankets were bunched around his waist, tangled around his legs making it a struggle as he tried to free himself. He shuffled through to the kitchen, pausing once he’d gotten a glass of water.

There were soft huffs of breath coming from his couch.

Eames tip-toed closer, Arthur’s dark hair instantly identifying him.

After Arthur had stayed over that first night, he’d taken to sleeping on Eames’ couch a few times a week. It had taken all of three times of Eames being woken in the middle of the night before he’d just given in and handed over a key to Arthur. It hadn’t been a big deal, just a simple practicality. Eames didn’t believe it himself, but figured if he said it enough, he might start believing it.

“You bloody idiot,” Eames sighed, setting his glass down and grabbing a blanket from the cupboard. His flat could get cold and Arthur was lying there without anything but the clothing he was wearing to keep him warm.

Eames draped the blanket over Arthur, tucking it in a little when Arthur said two simple words.

“Kiss me.” There was a lilt to it, an upwards inflection that made Eames wonder if it was supposed to be a question. Though, the way Arthur reached out a hand crushed that theory.

“I shouldn’t,” he whispered and finished tucking the blanket, struggling to keep Arthur’s stubborn limbs under the blanket.

“Please.”

Eames froze half bent over Arthur, the edge of the blanket gripped in both hands. “I can’t, Arthur. I’m sorry.” He dropped the blankets and left Arthur blinking up at him to escape to his bedroom.

As he got back into bed, glass of water on the nightstand beside him, Eames couldn’t ignore the niggle in the back of his head that he shouldn’t have denied Arthur one little kiss. One kiss wasn’t going to ruin everything. If anything, it might make Arthur more amenable to sharing details about his father, letting Eames in on any secrets he was privy to. But Eames knew he didn’t want to do that, didn’t want to taint Arthur that way. He’d fucked over enough people close to him, he didn’t want to go through that whole process again. At least, not if he could avoid it. There was already going to be a fallout, a rather unpleasant one at that, but he didn’t need to add to it all by making Arthur more attached to him—or rather for Eames to get more attached to Arthur.

Eventually, Eames managed to doze, eyes slipping closed even as his mind raced.

Creaking floorboards woke him. The darkness disorienting but amidst the shadows, he could make out a silhouette. His heart pounded and Eames sat up, blankets pooling at his waist as he reached for the bedside drawer and the gun he kept hidden in there.

“It’s just me,” Arthur mock whispered as he stepped closer. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Eames blinked and reached for the lamp instead, soft warm light illuminating the room enough for Eames to make out Arthur’s chagrined expression. “Everything alright?” he asked, grateful that he had remained clothed when he’d gone to bed.

“Well…” Arthur tugged at his shirt, pulling the rest of it out from where it had stubbornly refused to slip from being tucked in.

It wasn’t endearing, he had to remind himself. The shy quality wasn’t something Eames wanted to break through, he didn’t want to create a safe space for Arthur to open up. Not at all.

“I just… I don’t want to be alone,” Arthur said, voice soft but to Eames he may as well have been shouting.

Eames sucked in a breath, trying to play it cool as though those words weren’t twisting inside him. He wanted to both deny and allow the request, wanted to keep Arthur company and push him away. But Eames couldn’t have both. This was the moment for a decision. This was the moment to distance himself from Arthur.

“Come here then,” he said instead of the more appropriate choice.

Arthur hesitated for a second before climbing onto Eames’ bed and settling in next to him, leaving an arms length of space between them. “Thank you,” he mumbled, nuzzling into the pillows Eames kept on the bed but didn’t use for anything other than to pretend his bed wasn’t so empty.

It didn’t take long for Arthur to fall asleep but it took another hour for Eames to follow suit, the even breaths lulling him to sleep after he’s talked himself in circles.

Eames finally woke, the sun streaming in through his open curtains, to Arthur curled up against him. He moved, trying to get up but Arthur’s grip tightened on him, keeping him in place. Eames glanced over, smiling softly as Arthur blinked against the light, waking slowly. He recoiled the moment his eyes opened properly and settled on Eames.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He waved an arm, gesturing wildly to encompass all the cuddling they had apparently done while they’d been asleep.

“It’s fine,” Eames said. “Nothing to worry about, yeah?” He tried to keep his voice even, hiding the thrill that waking up next to Arthur had given him. “Come back.” Eames opened his arms, pulling Arthur back in and blaming the coherent cuddling on the fact that he was still waking up. But Arthur felt so good next to him, warm and solid and smelling faintly of Eames’ shampoo.

It was a terrible idea, he knew, but Eames held Arthur closer, pressing his lips to Arthur’s dangerously soft hair. Eames had never dared do something so monumentally stupid with Robert but Arthur in his arms felt right, fit in a way nothing else had in his entire life. He should have repressed the urge, pushed it down further. But, even though he knew everything was going to come crashing down around him, Eames couldn’t keep pushing Arthur away, he didn’t want to.

He used his free hand to lift Arthur’s chin, heartbeat picking up as Arthur’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip.

“Hi,” Arthur murmured.

Eames smiled and, blowing every warning inside his head to the wind, leaned down and pressed his lips to Arthur’s.

—

Eames sat at his desk, tapping a pen against the cheap wood, the file on Walter Wright sitting open in front of him. The file itself was the largest he’d ever curated. Walter was a devious man that had a lot to hide. The file on Arthur—that Eames hadn’t needed to create at all—was much thinner and a whole lot nicer. If it wasn’t for the both of them having the same dark hair and similar noses, Eames would never have guessed the two of them were related.

As his self-imposed deadline creeped up, Eames spent more time collecting information from all possible sources. He had managed to find a contact within Walter’s company that had been willing to hand over files that proved Walter was embezzling millions of dollars from many different accounts. There were even emails that were key in substantiating the claims of insider trading.

This was about the time Eames would have finalised his findings and sent every last piece of information off to the client but Eames was hesitating this time. Even when his friendship with Robert had been threatened, Eames hadn’t paused before taking Maurice down. Eames could only assume he was getting soft. Sending the file over would help end a tyrant’s rule, would aid in proving the innocence of workers Walter had blacklisted, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was considering asking for an extension so he could figure out a way to protect Arthur from the fallout of his father’s guilt.

If only protecting Arthur was as easy as teaching him about photography had been. Eames sighed, remember how quickly Arthur had picked everything up.

Eames had talked him through the whole process; the mix of chemicals he used to get the quality of images, tricks he used to brighten or darken different parts of the picture. It was around that point that people started to get bored with his explanation but Arthur had seemed to devour every word, even asking a few questions Eames had to think about before answering.

If he hadn’t already known he was in trouble, Arthur looking exceptionally at home in his darkroom would have alerted him to it.

Eames never found himself wishing his life were different but, for a change, he desperately wished he could have met Arthur under easier circumstances. Arthur was a bright spark in Eames’ life and he wished he could hold onto it for longer, much longer.

[  _ Update? _ ]

The message had come through hours ago, taunting Eames with the end of the job, the end of Arthur being in his life.

[  _ File will be couriered overnight. _ ]

He shoved everything he had on Walter Wright into the packet, sealing it up and heaving a sigh. It was both relief and worry. The job was nearly over, offering Eames the chance to get his life back in order as well as the opportunity to figure out how to keep Arthur around.

Eames was determined to figure it out, to find a way to explain things to Arthur before anything came to light.


	10. Chapter 10

Arthur woke to the soft clicks of a shutter opening and closing.

It was mid-afternoon, judging by the warm, low glow filtering through the window. He couldn’t remember when they had fallen asleep but he knew Eames had been next to him at the time.

“Morning,” Eames said, his voice soft, still tinged with sleep. He hadn’t been awake long.

“It’s after twelve,” Arthur mumbled into the pillow he pulled closer to him. If Eames wasn’t there to cuddle up to, he was going to make do.

“Semantics.”

The bed dipped, jostling Arthur from his comfortable position. “Watch it,” he groaned, burying his head deeper into the soft pillow that smelled like Eames. Since he’d stayed over the first time, Arthur had found that he slept better when he was around Eames. It might have been the soothing nature he exuded or because he was entirely smitten, but Arthur didn’t care. He didn’t want to overanalyze everything and ruin what was turning out to be the most open relationship in his life. Though, he supposed keeping any worries from Eames would ruin the open relationship they were building.

“Don’t move.”

“I don’t plan on moving ever again.”

There was another click, quickly followed by several more. Arthur lost count but let himself drift in the noises of Eames shuffling around and the shutter opening and closing. It was peaceful, almost domestic in a way Arthur had never thought would possibly be his life. There were a million things he needed to do; scales, papers, applications, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about a single one of them. He was with Eames. Nothing else mattered at that moment.

—

Hours later, Arthur was home, freshly showered and wondering how soon would be too soon to go back to Eames’. They’d talked and Arthur knew Eames had things he needed to do, clients he needed to check things with. Not to mention that Arthur had a meeting with Miles to discuss his decision—not that he’d made up his mind—but it didn’t stop him from itching to return. Something about his apartment made Arthur feel at home, more at ease than he ever had since his mother had died.

The intercom buzzer interrupted Arthur’s thoughts, dragging him back to the present. “Dad,” he called, heading to let whoever it was up. He figured it was someone for his father since Arthur hadn’t ordered food or invited anyone over. There was no way in hell Arthur would ever invite someone over while his father was there. That would open up a can of worms he wasn’t willing to deal with.

“Is Walter Wright home?” a delivery guy asked, face obscured by a baseball cap Arthur was fairly certain should have been removed as part of the rules of the building.

“Yeah.” Arthur turned, holding the door open as he gestured for the guy to come in. “I’ll go get him.”

His father was, as per usual, sitting behind his desk, phone tucked in against his ear. “Look, I don’t care what Smith said. I need those documents and I need to make sure no one else has a copy. Do you understand?”

Arthur knocked on the door, startling his father into turning around and hanging up on the person without saying goodbye.

“Arthur, what are you doing? I’ve told you not to disturb me,” he said, setting his phone down and tapping away at the keyboard as though he could get Arthur to leave by pretending to be busy.

“Someone’s here to see you,” Arthur replied with a shrug. He wasn’t a slave and he couldn’t have cared less about whatever work stuff he was interrupting. His father was a busy man, he’d fit another phone call in somewhere.

“Who?” He narrowed his eyes, pushing away from his desk.

“Didn’t ask his name. I’m not your secretary.” Arthur turned and walked away, not bothering to stick around for whatever his father was muttering under his breath. Arthur was fairly certain it was just complaints about him anyway and Arthur really wasn’t interested in hearing about how he was such a disappointment. He’d gotten enough of that over Christmas.

“Walter Wright?” the delivery guy asked, standing as soon as Arthur’s dad was in the room.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve got a delivery for Walter Wright.”

Walter sighed heavily and held his hand out. “I’m Walter Wright, now hand it over.”

“Cool,” the delivery guy said and handed over a slim package. “You’ve been served.” He escaped as Walter stood sputtering insults and threats.

Arthur watched his father tear into the package and stalk back to his office, muttering about his lawyer and how the whole thing was bullshit and that it wasn’t supposed to have happened. He followed, keeping a few paces behind his dad. A million questions swarmed in his head but the most pressing was, “What the fuck just happened?”

“What does it look like?” his father snapped, phone already up to his ear. “Burney, some little shit showed up at my house with a subpoena. You said I had nothing to worry about.”

“Dad,” Arthur said, trying to gain his attention but, instead of getting a response, the door was closed in his face. Arthur huffed out a breath, debating whether or not it would be worth it to storm his way in there.

Deciding that it was safer to escape the blast radius, Arthur grabbed a backpack and stuffed a few pieces of clothing in before leaving the apartment. There was only one place he wanted to go, despite having been there a few hours ago. He tried calling Eames but only got his voicemail.

“Hey, Eames…” Arthur sighed, dragging a hand through his hair as he sat on the subway, watching people shuffle to make room for others getting on. “Something’s happened and I really need to see you. I guess you’re not home, right now, but I’ll see you there, okay?” Arthur hung up, holding the phone in his hand and jiggling his leg as he willed the train to go faster.

The apartment looked the same as it had that morning, Chinese takeout containers still on the coffee tables, beer bottles stuffed haphazardly into Eames’ makeshift recycling bin, Eames’ clothes strewn on the floor. It was comforting, amidst the chaos that Arthur’s life had descended into.

Arthur went to the bedroom, gaze catching on the open door to the darkroom. He’d been in there a few days ago, learning more about developing pictures, and considered surprising Eames by doing one all by himself.

He dropped his bag outside the darkroom and rolled his sleeves up, preparing to start working. When he lifted his head, though, his eyes caught on the images hung up over the workbench.

There were at least a half-dozen pictures hung up, even more spread out on the bench, and they were all the same person. He was beautiful, sharp cheekbones, a soft smile as he gazed at the camera, there was even a colour one that showed off his stunningly blue eyes. In most of them, he was just sitting there, unaware of the camera, but there were a few that made Arthur a little uncomfortable. The guy was lying on a sofa, arms rested comfortably beneath his head as he stared directly at the camera like he could see straight through it.

Arthur didn’t know what about the photos were bugging him, but there was something; a niggle tweaking inside him. The pictures looked intimate like the guy was more than just a model. Arthur could only think that he must have been an ex of Eames’.

[  _ Five minutes away. Be there soon. _ ]

Arthur ignored the text, picking up a few pictures of the mystery guy only to find more underneath. These were of him, though, of Arthur in Eames’ apartment. Arthur pushed the photos on top to the side, uncovering more pictures. Ariadne was in one of them, Mal in even more. They were all moments from before Arthur had even met Eames but Arthur couldn’t figure out more than that.

A million questions swirled through his head, the strangeness of the whole situation shutting out the world surrounding him.

“Arthur,” Eames called. “You in here? I brought back sandwiches from that deli on Houston you’re always talking about.”

Arthur turned around when the door creaked open, Eames’ face dropping when he saw what Arthur was holding.

“It’s not what you think.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, waiting for Eames to continue with an explanation but nothing came. No words flowed from his mouth. Eames just stood in the doorway, his mouth opening and closing as he obviously chose the ‘right’ words. Arthur himself was at a loss for words, struggling to decide on whether or not he actually wanted an answer, if there was anything Eames could say that would make finding those pictures alright in any way.

He strode past Eames, taking care not to touch him on the way out, and escaped the apartment while Eames called after him.

There was only one place he could go, one place where things would still be the same: Mal and Dom’s.

Arthur took a cab the whole way, not wanting to be surrounded by people on the subway. Thankfully, Mal was alone when he arrived but she had a million questions. Arthur didn’t answer a single one, instead just grabbing the bottle of vodka from the freezer and settling in on the sofa.

He was still holding one of the pictures, shoving it at Mal when she sat beside him and demanding he answer something because she was thinking the worst.

“What is this?” she asked, frowning at the image. “This is us.”

Arthur nodded, taking a swig straight from the bottle.

“Arthur, where did you get this?”

Arthur took a larger drink, wincing as it burned the entire way down, but still didn’t answer. There wasn’t anything he could say. Eames hadn’t explained anything which confirmed his worst thoughts: Eames wasn’t who Arthur had thought he was. The photos spurned a thousand thoughts, one more horrifying than the other, but Arthur couldn’t stop from focusing on how it seemed too convenient that his father had been served only hours before. Eames’ silence made him wonder if the two events were connected and it turned his stomach, twisting it so much it hurt.

“Mon chou—”

“Mal,” Arthur said, his voice flat and devoid of any joy he had been feeling. “I don’t know anything and I really don’t wanna talk about it.”

Mal smiled sadly at him, shifting closer and wrapping her arms around him. “D’accord. Tonight, we will drink. Tomorrow, we will deal with whatever this is.”


	11. Chapter 11

Walter Wright’s trial was front page news, the story in every newspaper. It had started a few days prior and it seemed as though every journalist in the city was trying to one-up each other. It was tiring, reading every article, but the pictures of Arthur made it worth it. He was in every picture, standing next to his father looking solemn and perfectly put together in three-piece suits. These photos were the closest he’d gotten to Arthur since he’d found the pictures of Robert three months ago.

Eames had tried to get in touch with Arthur, calling and leaving messages with anyone he could. He’d even resorted to ringing Ariadne, but Arthur hadn’t returned anything, hadn’t called, hadn’t written, hadn’t sent a bloody smoke screen. Eames didn’t blame him, not in the slightest, but he would have rather Arthur hit him or screamed at him or did  _ something _ . The silence was the worst. He’d known it was coming but it still hurt. He’d let himself slip farther than he should have. It was stupid. He had rules. He had morals and he’d gone and thrown them all away for Arthur.

Now he was paying the price.

A knock on the door forced Eames to put the paper down and accept that he had things to deal with. He’d been expecting to be served. It came with the territory.

“Thanks,” he muttered, grabbing the package and trying really hard not to slam the door in the poor guy’s face.

Eames tore it open, scanning the subpoena. It was the usual jargon, informing him when he needed to appear. There wasn’t anything more to it, just the basics. Even though he knew Arthur wouldn’t have had anything to do with it, his heart sank. This tiny piece of mail had given him a stupid bit of hope that wasn’t even valid. After Robert’s reaction to Eames’ involvement with his father’s prison sentence, Eames shouldn’t have been surprised by Arthur freezing him out.

He had to fix it, had to get Arthur to listen to him.

Eames sighed and nodded, a plan formulating in his head.


	12. Chapter 12

Court trials were boring. Arthur had watched tonnes of movies and shows and thought he’d known what to expect but it was entirely different. There really wasn’t anything exciting; no lawyers jumping up to shout out an objection or anything like that. Arthur found his mind wandering more and more as the days wore on. He was only there as a show of support for his father. Family had to stick together and, since they were all they had left, Arthur had to stand next to his father no matter what. He wasn’t sure if he believed his father or if he believed the accusations against him. Either way, it didn’t really matter. His father was his father and that was all that mattered at the end of the day.

The lawyer had informed them that there were witnesses being called that day. Most of the people Arthur had no idea about but one name stuck out: William Eames.

“Who is he?” his father asked, voice booming with disdain.

“A key witness, apparently. Collated most of the evidence against you. Close acquaintance of your son’s.”

Walter turned on him, dismissing his lawyer with a violent jerk of his wrist. “Who is he?”

“No one,” Arthur mumbled, stuffing his hands in his trousers pockets and turning to the window. He’d spent months avoiding talking to Eames and tried valiantly to keep thoughts of him to a bare minimum, but now he had confirmation of his worst thoughts.

Eames was a part of this whole mess. Eames wasn’t who he had made Arthur think he was.

“Arthur, you will tell me who this William Eames is so I don’t have to go out there and make a fool of myself.” Walter gripped Arthur’s elbow, turning him around.

Arthur shrugged out of his hold, striding across the room. “He’s no one, alright. We were… friends,” he said, the word tasting bitter. “Now we’re not.” Arthur willed it to be true, desperately prayed that it would be. He had no idea what would happen when Eames was on the stand, no clue what he might say. Arthur had shared more than enough of himself for Eames to have plenty of ammo.

“You’d better hope he’s no one.”

—

White noise filled Arthur’s head. Eames was as beautiful as the last time Arthur had seen him. It was unfair that he sat there, looking like he belonged on the cover of a magazine while Arthur felt as though his heart was going to burst through his chest at any moment.

Eames was answering questions, his gaze not shifting to Arthur once during the whole thing for which Arthur was thankful. While he couldn’t keep his eyes off Eames, Arthur wasn’t sure what he would have done if Eames had looked at him. His father would have thrown a fit, most likely, once they were in the safety of their apartment where no one could see him as anything other than a stoic businessman who had been wronged.

As much as he wanted to follow the proceedings, wanted to hear the things Eames was saying, Arthur couldn’t get past remembering how well he and Eames had fit. He should have known that it was too good to be true. Eames was perfect, the exact person for Arthur. But Arthur didn’t have that kind of luck.

He should have known.

No one fit into his life that well, not even Mal or Dom. He should never have thought Eames was different. 

Arthur dragged his gaze from Eames and picked a spot on the wall near the judge, staring at it and hoping that no one would dare ask him what was happening. As long as he made it through the day without bursting, Arthur would count the day as a success.

—

The verdict rang in his ears.

_ Guilty. _

Watching as the guards stepped forward, turning his father around and slipping the handcuffs over his wrists, felt like a dream, as though it was all happening to someone else.

There had been moments during the trial where Arthur had thought of this possibility, wondered what he might do if it came down to it. He had imagined he’d object, call out for his father, say something. But as the guards escorted his father from the courtroom, nothing came to mind, no words slipped from his lips.

It was shock, and perhaps that tiniest hint of relief, that had frozen him to the spot as the courtroom emptied, he knew that. But he didn’t care for definitions, didn’t want to categorise what he wasn’t feeling—or what he was feeling far too much of. It was too hard to separate everything, discern fact from feeling, and Arthur wasn’t capable of much.

A soft hand curled over his shoulder, perfectly manicured nails digging in just enough to let Arthur know he wasn’t alone.

“We should go,” Mal said, her voice too loud in the quiet.

Arthur nodded and followed Mal out of the room and into a sleek black car. Later, he would wonder where she’d gotten the car from, but for now Arthur was willing to sink into the plush seat and watch the buildings as they passed, driving much longer than if they were simply going home.

“Mal,” Arthur managed to say, posing the single syllable as a question. Or maybe it was just Mal’s uncanny ability to know what Arthur was thinking that she knew it was a question.

“You need to talk.”

“I really don’t feel like having a chat right now, Mal.”

“Not with me.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, fingers tightening into fists against his thighs. “No.” He was never going to talk to Eames again. Eames had done more than enough. Arthur already felt like a fool for having trusted him with his secrets, for thinking that Eames had truly felt anything for him. There weren’t any words in the world that would make what Eames had done any better. There weren’t any actions that would fix what he had done.

“Don’t be so stubborn, Arthur,” Mal sighed, reaching over and forcing his right hand from its curled position. “You were much happier with him.”

“So?” he snarled, snatching his hand back. “I never want to see him again.”

—

“Get out.”

Arthur hadn’t wanted to see Eames, hadn’t wanted to be reminded of the betrayal or the way his chest ached as though he was being torn apart, his heart trying to self-destruct. But what else was he supposed to do when Mal forced him into this damn room and then let Eames in as well?

“Please.”

Arthur growled, wishing he had something to do with his hands that wasn’t purely clenching and unclenching his fists. In all honesty, he wanted to go to Eames, have those strong arms envelop him again, have the safety of Eames protecting him from the terrible turn his life had taken. But he couldn’t give in to that urge. Eames had betrayed him. There was no redemption from that. He had been used as a pawn in some stupid corporate game. Arthur had never thought Eames would be capable of something so callous but it turned out that Arthur hadn’t actually known the real Eames, just known same shade, a persona put on for his benefit.

“Arthur,” Eames said, taking a step back to put space between them. Arthur’s heart clenched at the physical representation of what was happening within himself. “You need to listen to me.”

“I don’t  _ need _ to do anything, Eames, least of all listen to you.” Arthur turned from him, facing the window so he wouldn’t have to look directly at the source of his heartache. “Nothing you told me was true. Why should I give you the chance to ‘explain’ anything?” He had intended for it to be a firm question, but the words came out soft, defeated, broken.

“Well, I need to say this,” Eames said, voice firm but still with a soft pleading tone.

Arthur clenched his fists at his sides, refusing to stuff them into his pockets and hide them. Eames had betrayed him, there was no reason to hide that he was hurt. Eames couldn’t possibly do any more damage. “No,” Arthur bit out. “Get out.” He wasn’t going to give Eames the chance to talk Arthur out of what he was feeling. Everything was so fresh, his father had only just been sentenced and Arthur wanted to be alone, needed to have time to figure out what he was going to do now.

“Arthur…”

“You need to leave,” Arthur said, steeling himself before turning around. He kept his gaze over Eames’ shoulder, careful not to look him in the eye. He wasn’t sure if he would keep his resolve if he actually looked at Eames. It tempted fate and Arthur wasn’t interested in that. “Now.”

Arthur kept his gaze aloft, only allowing himself to look at the door once Eames had gone. His chest ached, a tightness taking hold as he wished everything was different.

After everything, after all Eames had apparently done, Arthur was still hopelessly in love.

—

Sterile. Lifeless. Dry. Prison was nothing like what he’d imagined it would be. Arthur had heard the term ‘blue collar’ thrown around and he wondered what it would look like if it wasn’t specifically a prison for the more affluent inmates.

“So…” There were a million things to say and yet nothing came to mind. Arthur had made the appointment, arranged it last week so he would have plenty of time to come up with a script he could follow. But sitting in front of his father—who was wearing a blue jumpsuit that seemed far more high-end than it should have—Arthur couldn’t remember the exact words he had wanted to say. “You’re looking well.”

“You came all this way to say that?” Walter asked, disdain dripping from his voice and demeanour. He was leaning back in the chair, examining his nails and not even looking at Arthur.

“No.”

“Then get on with it.”

Arthur took a deep breath, pushing his anxiety down to get the words out. “I’m going to accept the seat on the Philharmonic.”

“Of course.”

Arthur frowned, the reaction not what he had anticipated. “Excuse me?”

“You were always going to choose the Philharmonic. The jazz was just a distraction.” Walter said it all so matter-of-factly Arthur wondered if it held any truth. Maybe the jazz had been a way to pretend for a while.

“Of course,” Arthur mumbled.

“Is that all?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” Walter said, standing and straightening his jumpsuit. “Next time, I hope you have something a bit worthier of a meeting.” He walked out, escorted by a guard and leaving Arthur alone yet again.

When Arthur had played the conversation out in his head, he’d expected more words, more anger at Arthur having wasted years of his life. This general lack of emotion wasn’t his father.

Arthur left the prison, sending off a message to Mal letting her know he was on his way to see her. With his father out of the way, Arthur had to convince Mal and Dom that the Philharmonic was what he wanted, that he would still love jazz, and that he wasn’t cutting them out of his life. They were the family he had, the family he chose.

He hoped they’d understand.


	13. Chapter 13

_ Arthur, _

_ I would like to apologise a thousand times over. I don’t have many regrets in this world, but hurting the people I care about is right up there. I understand why you won’t talk to me, as much as I wish it weren’t true. But I’m hoping you’ll read this and at least have insight into me, into everything I did, why I did it. _

_ When we first met, it was because I was hired to investigate your father. From the get-go, I knew Walter was guilty of everything I’d been told about him but I had no way of getting concrete information without getting closer to him. Then I stumbled across you. _

_ You were the perfect opening to gain access to Walter in a way I couldn’t achieve from a distance. But… But you were so much more than I ever anticipated, Arthur. You were charming, and gorgeous, and so bloody clever; everything I never realised I was looking for. I never thought it would become more than a job but the more I got to know you, the more attached I became. I should never have let it go that far but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to know you, wanted to discover everything that made you who you were. I got a glimpse, that barest hint into what made you tick and it wasn’t enough. I’m not sure any amount of time with you would be enough but I wanted to try and I’ve gone and ruined it all. _

_ Saying it was just a job doesn’t make it any better, I know. I’ve tried it before. The guy in those pictures you found, Robert Fischer, did the exact same thing. Not saying that I was ever as close to him as I was with you… But we were friends and when his father was found guilty, everything turned to custard, much like it did with you. However, losing you hurts far worse than losing Robert ever did. _

_ Nothing I do could make up for what has happened, I know, and I’m not trying to convince you to pretend as though nothing has happened. Just know that if you would like to ask me anything, or even just yell at me, please feel free. My number is still the same. _

_ I sent your details off to a friend of mine. Saito. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of him. But he listened to one of your jazz pieces and was as besotted as I was the first time I heard you play. Hopefully he’ll get in touch soon with an offer. I know the Philharmonic was something you were considering but that would be such a waste of your talents, Arthur. Please, give the jazz a chance. Give Saito a chance to make a name for you. _

_ I understand that there is a very high possibility of you never forgiving me, but I live in hope that you might, one day. _

_ Yours, _ _   
_ _ Eames _


	14. 6 Months Later

New York was exactly as Arthur remembered. The last time he’d been in the city, his life had been turned entirely upside down but now, everything was under control. Things were on the up and up, had been for a few months, ever since getting into business with Saito.

After Eames’ letter, Arthur had thought everything in it was just bullshit to get Arthur to forgive him. Turned out he was wrong. Saito was extremely real and  _ extremely _ wealthy. He was a philanthropist with money he was willing to throw around for the perfect person. Arthur had been that person, according to Saito.

Saito had convinced him to return to New York, after spending two months in Paris broadening his musical horizons, to go back to his roots. Arthur had called Mal who had then convinced Dom to allow Arthur to return to their stage. He knew he’d been given the chance in the hopes that his name would draw a bigger crowd than the club had been getting in the past few weeks. 

He still had a few hours to kill before needing to be at the club, though, and had taken to wandering the streets, remembering places he used to spend his days at. He’d gotten a coffee from the place he and Ariadne used to frequent almost daily and had found a flier for a photography exhibit that had seemed interesting. Something about the image on the flier seemed familiar and Arthur had been intrigued, following the thread of familiarity all the way to Brooklyn.

Arthur had never really given himself the time to just stand back and admire art, never really finding anything in it. But, standing in front of a portrait of a dark-haired male, the point of view over his shoulder and showing the window and busy New York street below, Arthur was captivated. His heart caught in his throat. It was the larger image from the flier and Arthur finally figured why it had been so familiar.

He was the dark-haired male in the picture.

“Arthur?” a familiar voice asked, the accent rolling the r’s in his name into something much more seamless.

Arthur turned around, unsurprised to find Eames standing in front of him. He looked better than he had the last time he’d seen him. Eames wasn’t as scruffy looking, his baby blue shirt unbuttoned enough to show a hint of the dark swirls of ink Arthur had always been intrigued by. “Eames,” he said, smiling a little at how his name felt in Arthur’s mouth. It was an unfamiliar word, something he’d strictly forbidden himself from saying in the months following his father’s incarceration.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Eames said, hands stuffed into his trousers pockets, his gaze darting between Arthur and the picture behind him.

“I didn’t expect for you to have a show. I didn’t realise you were actually a photographer.” As the words came out, Arthur knew they sounded harsher than he had intended them to be. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, I get it.” Eames smiled, meeting Arthur’s gaze. “It’s fair.”

“How’ve you been?” Arthur asked, not wanting to go down a path he knew would only lead to unnecessary pain at that moment.

“Surviving. I’m a full-time photographer now,” he said, gesturing to the gallery Arthur hadn’t fully explored. He’d seen that picture he recognised and had gotten stuck.

“They all look beautiful.” Part of him wanted to say more, to ask about why he’d chosen a picture of Arthur to put on his flier when his gaze caught on another image. It was full colour, the pale skin contrasting against the dark sheets pooling around the model’s waist. “I remember this,” Arthur breathed, stepping closer to it. “That final morning…”

“It’s my favourite,” Eames said, standing next to Arthur but leaving a foot of space between them. “There’s nothing in the world quite like getting to see someone so comfortable.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Eames turn to face him, but Arthur kept his gaze forward, memorising the details before him. It wasn’t a view of himself he’d ever been privy to before and he couldn’t look away.

“I’m sorry for not telling you what I was doing. I thought I’d have more time.”

“Thank you.” He'd always expected to hear those words but Arthur actually appreciated them. When the trial was happening, he wasn't sure he would have accepted Eames' apology considering he wouldn't even give Eames the time of day then. Maybe he was maturing.

Arthur checked his watch, balking at the time. He’d gotten too captivated by the pictures and had lost track of the time. “I’ve gotta go,” he said, offering Eames a small smile, the first in a long time.

“I’m glad you stopped in.”

Arthur paused halfway to the door, turning back to find Eames watching him. “You know,” he said, contemplating whether or not it was going to be a good idea. “I’m playing at Level 3 tonight. You should stop by.”

“Your old slot?”

Arthur nodded. “With Mal and everything.”

Eames smiled, eyes sparkling as he stepped forward. “If you’re sure…”

“I’ll see you at eight.”


End file.
